


Old Things Fade Away

by Helholden, KaelsMiscellany



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Breeding Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escape, F/M, Ghosts, Hiding, Lots of Sex, On the Run, Season 5 AU, Sex, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 144,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she is incarcerated at Eichen House, Lydia ends up in the cell next to Peter.</p><p>From there, things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as an RP between Helholden and myself, and we both decided we wanted to share it with you and so now you see it here before you.
> 
> And yes, we're calling it a season 5 AU, because LBH Lydia and Peter working together to escape Eichen isn't going to happen in the show, nor is what we've got worked out for the rest of this story.

Lydia sways between the two orderlies escorting her; her head hurts, so does her throat.

 _“Do you remember what happened Miss Martin?”_   The doctor she’d seen before the orderlies had taken her away had asked her that. But she doesn’t remember, not all of it.

She does remember pain, and screaming; oh, that’s why her throat hurts. But the doctor had asked her about Scott and Stiles and all she could say was ‘ _I don’t know_.’ The doctor had nodded kindly, then written something down, handing it off to another orderly ‘ _make sure she gets that in her dinner_.’

Then she’d been taken away. She’d expected them to take her towards the patient cells, the sort she'd visited Meredith in countless times, so the prison-esque cells frighten her. As do the raucous calls of the inmates, though they drown out the whispers from Eichen itself.

As for Peter, he is crouched in the corner of his cell. He is less noticeable that way unless they come specifically for him. Crouched down, slumped over, far away from the door. Knees to his chest. Elbows on his knees. The repetition in his head is the only thing keeping him sane. Vaguely sane. He’s lost a lot of it by now, or maybe it’s the drugs. It could be the wolfsbane, slowly poisoning him day by day.

It’s different here, where they’ve moved him. There aren’t any glass walls, just bars. He isn’t as big a threat anymore as he once was, and he isn’t broken enough for them to use for the experiments. He still fights them. They can’t get blind obedience out of him. _This one’s stubborn_ , he hears them say when they pick him up, shaking and broken and drenched, before carrying him back to his cell. It’s true. He is that.

There’s a commotion, and he turns very slightly to look as he hears the other inmates banging on their cells. Their hollers fill the air, some whistles, some obscenities. He narrows his eyes and crawls closer to look.

His fingers curl around the bottom of the bars as the orderlies walk her past his cell. His eyes are wide, and he crawls up to stand. Normally, he wouldn’t make a scene, but he _knows_ her. He knows _her_.

He can’t call her name, though. They can’t know he knows her. They can’t know that. They can’t—

Peter balls up his fist and slams his forearm into the bars, rattling them. “Hey!” he hollers, and then he slams his forearm into it again and again. “Hey, hey, _hey!_ ”

Lydia jumps at a familiar voice. He keeps shouting, and feeling a little like she’s in a horror movie—isn’t she?—she turns her head to see Peter, arms slamming into his cell door, eyes glassy, but seeing her.

Before she can even think to respond, though, a door crashes open; the cell next to Peter, there’s irony in that, she’s sure. Without aplomb, she gets shoved in, falling to the ground when her legs finally give out. An hysterical giggle escapes her before she can stop it.

He grips the bars, watching her without blinking until she disappears from sight—into the next cell. Peter pulls back, lets the orderlies pass, and watches them until they’re out of sight. He lowers himself to the floor, scrambling close to the wall. He looks half-heartedly over his shoulder, but there’s a wall between them. He leans his head until it’s pressed against the bars.

“ ...Lydia?” he says.

Her name from him cuts her giggle short. It doesn’t completely bring her back from whatever edge what happened has driven her to, but she finds it centers her, gives her something to focus on besides the gaping maw of ‘I don’t know.’

“Peter,” she whispers, half desperate. She hopes he can here her from her current spot, she feels weak; already she hated it.

Around the ward, inmates begin to calm down and the endless whisper of Eichen once more assaults her ears.

His face twists. Peter barely recognizes the feeling in his chest, but it hurts. He can only just endure their torture, but Lydia...if she is here, that means...his insides clench as well, gut churning, and there’s a powerful sense of entitled anger bursting through him. He may have attacked her once, but they had _no right_ —

He grips the bars, twisting further to try and face her direction. “We need to get out,” he says quickly, the words spilling from his lips. “We need to get out, and we need to warn—” Peter cuts off, freezing. He was going to say _Scott_. A laugh bubbles up from his throat. Is he really that broken, that his first thought goes to Scott?

Scott put him here.

Peter laughs, and he laughs and he laughs until it breaks and there are tears in his eyes and he has to choke back a sob. The hysterical moment is short-lived, and he presses his face into his hands.

Peter’s voice cuts through the whispers like a knife, relief, but at what cost? ‘ _Peter never does anything for free_ ,’ Allison reminds her.

He says the need to get out, escape and warn...warn who? And why escape? They brought her here for a reason, but why? She’s not unstable, not a danger. Or at least...she doesn’t think so. _Blood on her hands..._

Peter’s broken laughter yanks the memory away before she can even think to grasp it. Something in it tugs at her, she should be taking pleasure in his pain; he _attacked_ her and made five weeks of her life hell, he _deserves_ to suffer.

But it’s not vicious pleasure she feels. Reaching out, she grasps the edge of the bed and uses it to pull herself up. Standing, she glares at the bars in front of her. She _will_ get herself to them _now_ , see if she doesn’t.

And she does; then, without even thinking, she snakes her arm out, offering it. “Peter,” she says again as his laughter dies. She’s not sure what she’s doing, but the fact that she’s doing something is enough for her at the moment.

He drags his hands down his face, staring outward for a brief moment until her voice shocks him back to the present. Peter turns to look instinctively, opening his mouth to finish his earlier thought, when he sees her hand reaching past the wall between them. It sits outside his bars, fingers outstretched.

He stares at it, his mouth feeling dry, and draws back. She wouldn’t offer a hand to him, not Lydia Martin. His chest hurts again, that same unidentifiable feeling as before, but that’s not true. He knows that feeling. He felt it the night he saw Derek lying outside the temple ruins in La Iglesia, blood soaking through his shirt.

Fighting all instinct to crawl away, Peter inches closer to the bars again. Very slowly, he lets his hand slip past them until their fingertips graze. A small jolt of fear passes through him when their hands initially touch, causing a twitch in his hand, and he pauses—waiting to see if it's a trick. If she can’t be trusted.

But then nothing happens, and Peter slides his hand carefully into hers. A gentle touch, nothing like him, but he has held her once like this before. Only it was her cheeks, not her hand.

His fingers curl around with a delicacy and gentleness befitting anyone but him.

The first touch of his fingers is a jolt; she may have offered her hand, but she never expected him to take it.

But now that he has...

The feather light touch teases but the warmth of him sinks into her, somehow bringing back everything into sharp focus; she still might not know why she’s here or what happened to everyone else, but it’s  _real_.

She traps his hand in hers, fingers curing around his skin and clutching tight. “Peter,” she says it slowly, half worried that she might lose him again to whatever madness has him; but she _won’t_ because she’s not going to ignore the one person she might be able to trust. A part of her giggles madly at that, though. Trust Peter? “Why do we have to get out?”

It’s clear Eichen has broken him in a way not even death did; but the way he’d insisted on escape, just after they’ve ‘reconnected’ is...worrying.

The sudden clutch of her hand causes him to jerk back out of fear; she startled him. His hand almost slips from hers, but her grip is tight enough to keep him in place because he isn’t using his full strength. His fingers let go, only to clutch back harder this time. There is a warning in it.

Something in her relaxes when she feels Peter grab her hand back; they both need to be as here as they can be.

“You don’t know?” Peter asks, keeping his voice low. His voice takes on a feverish quality as he reaches up to her wrist, tugs hard on her arm. “They’re doing experiments on us. Supernaturals. This isn’t a ward, Lydia. They’re altering things. Cutting into our brains. Injections, surgeries—” His grip tightens on her again. “They cut into my arms—they took something out or put something in, I don’t know, but I feel it—something isn’t right—” He’s rambling at this point, synapses firing off at random. “We have to get out. We have to get out. _We have to get out_ —”

But then he starts talking, each word feels like a blow, and she becomes horrifyingly certain that she’s never going to get a good night’s sleep from nightmares.

He starts rambling. _Shit_. Her mind scrambles on how she might pull him back, if all of that really is happening she can’t survive _or_ escape on her own. 

“Peter,” she speaks as soothingly as she can. “So what’s your brand of psychosis?” She has no real idea why she says the first words his younger self said to her, except there’s something hilariously wrong about using it in a mental institution.

He falters, mentally and physically. Her question throws him off guard, makes him forget what he was saying. He shifts back and blinks, looking around himself. He is in his cell. It gives Peter some ground to realize that, and he thinks of pulling his hand away, but her grip grounds him as well.

“Hallucinations,” he answers quietly, and then another small laugh bubbles up. “ _Delusions_ of grandeur.” His arm slips between the bars. It’s starting to hurt. “Paranoia.”

Her head jerks back in surprise at his response. She’d half-expected his old response, but no, she gives herself a shake. This isn’t that Peter. She wonders if he’d ever be that Peter again or if he was gone with the rest of the Hales.

“Peter,” she lets a note of exasperation creep into her voice, familiar territory for them, safe. “It’s not paranoia if someone’s really out to get you.” Even she knows that.

Her thumb shifts, starting to rub against the skin on the back of his hand; she finds she understands why he’d think so, though. Along with the experiments, it wouldn’t surprise her if they were brutalizing his instincts, making him doubt his wolf, that which he probably considered his core.

“Then it’s just survival instinct.” Escaping wouldn’t be so easy if he didn’t trust those instincts of his; it isn’t as if hers are any use to her in this place full of death and madness.

The repetitive pattern of her thumb, along with her voice, soothes him. Peter starts to relax. Even his eyelids drift, and he lays his head against the wall. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive in here. His arms itch, so he shifts, pulling his arm back to him at once.

“The orderlies,” Peter says quietly, watching the far end of the hall. The closed door to their wing. A little of his mind comes back to him, causing him to sit up straighter. “They come three times a day. Once at six. The second time at noon, and then at six again. They bring food. Sometimes a change of clothes. They never open the cell, but they have keys.” Peter wracks his brain for a plan. He has to think clearly. He has to for Lydia. “Do you remember the layout? The way to an exit?”

Something in her cries when Peter pulls away, but Lydia pushes it aside; she can’t let herself wonder why. Slowly, she pulls her hand back.

She listens to him, nodding even though he can’t see her. Pulling her phone out—they took her purse, but she started to carry her phone on her—she sees there’s no service, but the clock still works. _5:58 PM_.

Quickly, she thinks back, retracing her steps. “Yes,” she whispers, hoping he heard it over the clanging of the ward door opening. Swiftly, she tucks her phone under her pillow.

 _Yes_ , she says. Peter feels resolve filling him. A plan, they need a plan. He knows there are armed guards. He knows they have weapons with wolfsbane for the werewolves. The walls are made of mountain ash. They will come back and inject him again; they always do to keep him in line. Keep him weak. Keep him docile. This time when they bring the food and the medicine, they won’t get a chance.

Thinking on wolfsbane isn’t going to work, but time is also an essence they don’t have. He can’t wait for a better day. A better day may never come.

Peter hears the door open at the far end and crooks his neck to look. There are two carts to distribute food and medicine and another for fresh clothes and a hamper for dirty ones. Six orderlies in packs of two. One pair stops in from of Lydia’s cell beside him, and Peter crouches down on the floor, keeps out of their view, but watches them intently with as little movement as possible. His eyes dart everywhere. He sees the keys hanging on the right side of one’s pocket.

The orderlies’ voices add to the sounds of Eichen, and Lydia winces in pain. Some of them pass her, pushing carts ahead of them. But two stop in front of her cell. One is carrying a tray of food the other clothes.

Swallowing, she stands up; the orderly with the clothes shoves them through the bars. “Change.”

With shaky hands, she takes them. Of course there’s no privacy for her, but still she straightens. “Turn around first. I’m not going to be your peep show.”

For a moment, she thinks they won’t, but thank God that they do. She turns around, too, just in case.

“The bra, too. We don’t want you hurting yourself.” She flushes and bites back tears, but does so.

The clothes itch, and she’s already missing her clothes, which she’s certain she’s never going to see again, as she hands them over. The other orderly hands over the food tray. “Eat.” Sterling conversationalists, the both of them.

She takes the tray and sits on the bed, mindful not to jostle her pillow too much. She raises the first spoonful of what’s hopefully eggs to her mouth. ‘ _Make sure she gets this_ in _her food_.’

She recoils at the memory and glances over at the orderlies, who are still watching her intently, hopefully making sure she eats. Part of her wants to refuse, but she also knows she’ll need every bit of energy and strength she can get.

Dread filling her, she takes the first fateful bite.

The eggs taste like so much dust in her mouth.

He doesn’t react when they tell her to change. They tell everyone to change when they have to, but Peter bristles as Lydia demands them to turn around. Fingers clench until they comply with her request, and he feels his knuckles loosen. Quickly, Peter lays on the ground afterwards, sprawls out, and closes his eyes.

When they are done with their orders for her, they move to his cell next.

“Dinner time,” one calls out.

Peter pretends not to hear them and remains unresponsive. They bang on the bars next with a baton.

“Hey, it’s time to eat. Get up or don’t eat.”

Peter still doesn’t respond. He hears them fumble with the keys, unlock the door, and slide the bars open.

He hoped that’s what they would do.

Once the orderly touches him, Peter snatches his arm and throws him over himself against the wall. He gets up onto his feet as the other orderly comes at him with a baton. Peter grabs it as the man tries to strike, and he hits the man in the throat with enough force to send him flying into the bars, choking and eyes wide. The first man gets up when Peter turns back to him, and he extends his claws and slashes his throat, grabbing the keys afterwards.

The other orderlies are rushing to help, having heard the commotion. Peter grabs the man by the bars and uses him as a shield when they try to fire a wolfsbane tranquilizer dart at him. It hits the orderly instead, sending him into convulsions, and Peter attacks the next two just outside of his cell. He breaks the arm and the neck of the one who tried to tranquilize him, slashes another throat, but the last two try to run and don't make it. Peter catches them at the door before they can unlock it with their key codes because he’s faster than them, and the woman screams.

“Please,” she says, “please don't kill me!”

The man beside her is silent and shaking; he also doesn’t try to fight, sweat glistening on his forehead. Peter considers it and snatches them, dragging them both back to his cell. He takes her key card as well as the man's and locks them in his cell before turning to Lydia’s.

Peter fumbles with the keys, but gets her cell open. He walks right up to Lydia and grabs her arm, pulling her towards the cell door. “Come on,” he says gruffly, “we need to go.”

The drugs act faster than she thought they would and the world feels a little watery. So when there’s a commotion in Peter’s cell she hardly reacts, except a start when she realizes the expectant scream as orderlies die only lurks in her chest.

Then Peter’s _there_ in her cell, she stares at him dumbly for a moment before he grabs her arm and yanks her upright and towards the door. She opens her mouth to tell him to wait a second while she grabs her phone but all that comes out is a soft croak.

Fear chitters at the edges of her mind. _What did they do to me_? Her phone more important than ever she yanks her hand out of Peter’s grasp—too easy—and snatches up her phone.

Some of the fear goes away now that she has a means of communication. As a sort of apology, she slots her hand back into Peter’s and gestures for him to lead the way. _Please be temporary, please, please._

Who is Lydia Martin, after all, if she can’t _speak_ her mind.

Her pull away from him shocks him, and Peter turns back to see her snatch a phone before she is back at his side in no time. He lets her take his hand, closing his fingers around her palm, and leads the way. Walking two steps ahead of her in case he needs to block anything, he makes it to the door and opens it with the key card until they are in another hallway. Only this one has bare walls, and the door shuts behind them with a loud clap that leads into silence.

“Which direction?” Peter asks her, keeping his eyes alert for any movement. He is sure this place has cameras, and it won't take long until someone comes. The exit eludes him, but he knows which way he doesn’t want to go.

The door closing behind them sounds all too final, and she has to resist the urge to jump at the sound.

At his question she starts and after a second’s thought jerks her head left; they’d turned right to get into the ward.

Peter sees the movement of her head and takes them in that direction. He tries to scent out an exit, but his brain is still foggy and sluggish; the wolfsbane in his system hasn’t left yet. They make it ten feet before he hears a sound, a door clapping open. Instinctively, he darts for the nearest door himself, yanks it open, and shoves Lydia inside. He follows quickly, shutting it without making a sound and listens and waits for them to pass.

The less people he kills on their way out, the less armada they’ll have coming after them.

Lydia’s heart pounds in her chest as Peter shoves her into what looks like a storage closet of some sort. Not that she can see much from what little light gets in.

She tries to keep her breathing even as they wait, though if they’ve made her mute did that include unintentional sounds? Better things to think about then the fact this is the closest she’s been to Peter since he attacked her.

He’s warm against her, but not as warm as she remembers werewolves usually being. Was it something that’d been done to him? 

She presses a hand against his chest to draw his attention, then pulls out her phone. ‘ _What’s happening?_ ’

Her hand on his chest causes him to look down. Lydia stares at him, the light of the phone the only illumination against her face. Peter reads the message she typed out and draws his eyebrows together. The only thing that comes to his mind is that they did something to her. The people have passed outside, but she hasn’t spoken a word since he took her out of her cell.

Without warning, Peter grabs her face. One hand against her jaw, his fingers on the back of her neck. The other hand holds her jaw as well, but he uses his thumb underneath her chin to crane her head back as he inspects her throat. His eyes find nothing, though, and he feels a little crazier than before. His thumb falls down the center of her throat.

“Did they do something to you?” he asks, his voice scratchy and low and...something else rattles in his tone, but he isn’t sure what. Maybe they gave her something to numb her vocal chords. Cut out her scream.

His hands on her feel far too personal, keeping her still and making the situation feel far more intimate than it has any right to.

She shivers when his thumb brushes her throat, but quickly nods. Tearing her gaze away from his, she looks back down at her phone. ‘ _There was something in my food.’_ But she didn’t each much of it...

Out of curiosity, she attempts to hum; she doesn’t make a sound but her throat vibrates, more noticeable with Peter’s thumb right on it. Relief floods her though. _It’s not permanent_.

He relaxes at her admission. His hands fall away, but then blinding pain shoots through his forearms. Peter can only grab one at a time, his fingers clutching in deep on the skin as if it might help with the pain. He staggers, but keeps his balance without falling into the door.

Fear courses through her when Peter staggers away from her, hands scrabbling at his arms.

Without even thinking, she reaches out, not sure if she’s trying to stop him or attempting to help him keep his balance. She opens her mouth to try and say something, but all that comes out is a faint hissing sound.

Hoping he doesn’t try and fight her, she worms one of her hands under his, attempting to dislodge it. She knows his werewolf healing will, no _should,_ deal with any injury he might get, but it’s better that he doesn’t get any at all. _Since when did I start caring?_  she wonders.

Her other hand begins stroking his forearm, attempting to sooth him like she would a terrified animal.

Of course with her hands occupied she can’t ask what’s wrong with him. So instead she looks him in the eye and arches a gentle eyebrow. 

Claws emerge from his nail beds unbidden, and Peter stares at them, wondering how he is losing his control. Fangs replace his canines; he feels his forehead begin to morph. He raises his eyes and stares at Lydia, trying to latch onto the one thing that can keep him human. He had been so sure they hadn’t experimented on him yet, but still they did something to him.

He feels his eyes flash, and he backs into the wall. Peter slides to the floor. He has hurt her enough already. Not again, he thinks, and he digs his claws deep into his own arms so they don’t go after her.

She watches him transform almost numbly; yes, she’s worried, but in the grand scheme of things, this is hardly worth panicking about.

Hurt flashes through her numbness when he steps away from her, backing away, eyes glowing brightly as he sinks to the floor. She can just barely see him now, a darker lump amongst the shadows.

Undeterred, the numbness is good for _something_ , she goes to him. Slowly kneeling, she doesn’t want to aggravate him, beside him. Just as slow she reaches out again, this time taking his head in her hands instead of his arms.

“Peter,” it comes out barely a whisper, yet fierce joy fills her that she managed to speak at all.

The joy bolstering her she leans in, resting her forehead against his, one of her thumbs begins brushing his cheekbone; while her other hand moves to his hair, fingers tangling and petting the messy locks.

She tries to speak again, but once more only a hissing sound comes from her throat. So instead she closes her eyes; moving her head slightly so her temple is pressed up against his, barring her neck ever so slightly. _Despite all better judgment, I trust you, Peter_. Probably too complex an idea to convey with body language alone, but she’ll damn well try.

With the transformation comes an urge instinctive in nature to attack, to fight, like a cornered animal with nowhere to go, no escape, no reprieve. Peter can’t control the sudden urge anymore than he can control the unsolicited change, and when Lydia kneels down in front of him and touches his head, he flinches at first, wanting to shove her away.

But he stills as her forehead touches his, as she says his name, and he closes his eyes as her thumb brushes his cheek. He opens them a moment later. She bares her neck, and his claws detach from his own arms. He doesn’t expect what comes next, but he wraps his arms around her in a desperate attempt to remind himself that this must be real. It can’t be a dream.

Lydia is warm and soft and small, and Peter latches onto her, unbidden guilt swarming forward. His claws, he doesn’t feel them anymore, but his eyes are burning. His arms tighten and hold fast, pulling her toward him as if he might enfold her in his chest, his hand sliding into her hair and holding the back of her head.

She doesn’t fight as he pulls her into his lap. Struggling would just bring back his fighting instinct. His heat seeps into her, and she finds herself relaxing into it. Maybe she really does deserve to be in Eichen. Scott or Stiles would definitely call this crazy.

But the way he clings to her, like she’s the only real thing in this world, and buries his face in her neck is, well. It’s doing things to her; not sexual ones, but she hasn’t been held like this in _years_  and it’s just, her own nose is pressed against his ear and she finds herself sighing.

She pulls her head away, or at least as far away as the hand in her hair will allow her to, and with her own grip in his hair, she tilts his head away from her neck. His eyes are still glowing in the dimness of the closet, but they quickly vanish as she closes her own eyes.

And without thinking, she leans in and kisses him.

He just killed _three_ people, his hands are still covered in their blood; _he_ is still covered in their blood, but she’s kissing him.

In a supplies closet in Eichen House, two escaping prisoners hiding from sight.

Peter’s eyes close as she moves in. At first, he does nothing. It’s just a press of lip, not even a proper kiss. As if it couldn’t get anymore surreal, Peter remembers another kiss as a different person, surrounded by white walls in an open foyer. His hand tightens on the back of her head to hold her in place, and he deepens the kiss, parting his lips against hers.

She’s flesh and blood and bone and _real_ , and he has never kissed her in reality. Only in a dream.

When he doesn’t respond at first, she finds herself starting to beat herself up, she doesn’t know why she’s doing this and it’s clearly a mistake on more than one level.

But then he presses back, opens his mouth and, _oh_.

Their last kiss had been an illusion, a lie, and she nearly thinks that this is just another one. But there’s a visceral quality to this kiss—she finds her tongue sliding into his mouth to prod at his—that their last one didn’t have.

She squirms closer, wanting more. The rest of the world fading away.

At the parting of her lips, he loses all sensibility. Peter drags her closer with the palm he has against her back, clutching hard, and their lips slide together in a way that’s hot and suffocating in the small closet with all of the body heat trapped in such a small space.

It’s not an appropriate place for this, but he wants the moment while he has it, so he opens his mouth further and slips his tongue hot along hers, presses them closer until breathing is hardly an option and he's finally forced to break the kiss to gulp in air.

Peter blinks open his eyes, removing his hand from her head to bring it around and gently cup her face. He brushes his thumb along her cheek, oddly soft in comparison to the heat of the kiss.

He clears his throat, placing his full palm against her cheek. “We should get moving,” he says, but his eyes are locked on her face and he doesn’t want to let go. Not just yet.

When he breaks away, she nearly chases after him to start a new kiss but holds herself back. She’s not ashamed or embarrassed about kissing him, just annoyed that she let her hormones make a decision in their current situation.

In her chest her heart pounds, her body flush with awareness: his hand on her back holding her flush against him, the hand cupping her cheek gently. She lets loose a shuddering sigh.

At his words she nods, deciding to hoard her voice for the moment, just in case. She attempts to climb out of his lap, except the hand at her back is implacable. She looks him dead in the eye an arches an unamused eyebrow.

Realizing he’s holding her back, Peter quickly lets go. His hand falls away from her face to her hip as he ushers her out of his lap and goes to stand. Once he’s on his feet, a sudden rush of clarity hits him. He has to get her out of here. They’ve wasted enough time already. Without saying anything else, Peter grabs her hand and peers out of the door. The coast seems clear, so he pushes forward into the hallway, pulling Lydia along behind him.

Being thrust upwards so quickly has her feeling a little light headed, so she hardly protests when Peter grabs her hand again, tugging her along once more.

She gives his hand a squeeze, as if to try and convey that she’s not annoyed at him for holding her down. But she also understands that now isn’t really the time.

With Peter holding her hand the whispers of Eichen are just that, whispers; and she can ignore them if she so chooses. They reach another intersection, this one a long hallway at one end or a short hallway with a door on the other. Closing her eyes, she replays her journey into the ward. Once she has the right way, she opens her eyes again, tugging Peter’s hand towards the door at the end of the short hall.

He follows her guiding hand, despite himself physically leading the way, and checks through the small glass window in the door before he opens it. Once they’re on the other side, an alarm sets off above his head, louder than a simple door alarm.

”They know we’re out,” Peter says. He casts a glance at Lydia, grips her hand tighter, and makes a run for it with her in tow.

It works, of course, until something shoots out of the corner at the end of a hallway and hits him in the chest. Peter hits his knees, letting go of her hand. Reacting quickly, he yanks the dart out of his chest. The whole thing hasn’t depressed, but he feels a dizziness cause him to sway.

Lydia almost feels like a ragdoll in the wind being pulled behind Peter like this. The thought of it actually brings a smile to her face, at least until she sees and orderly shoot Peter. It’s only a tranq dart, or at least that’s what she hopes it is, but it’s still a breaking point.

The two men approach warily, but haven’t shot at her, which is damn stupid of them really. She only spares the briefest of glances at Peter, on his knees but still conscious for the moment, before looking at the men again.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. The men share glances and then grin simultaneously. Recklessly, she turns inward, diving in and gathering all her anger and fear and uncertainty. Further and further in, until there’s nothing around her, not even Peter. Until she reaches the cold core of her, letting it fill her up until she’s nothing but the banshee.

Eichen screams at her, and she screams right back.

Her vision swims as some semblance of awareness returns to her, to steady herself her hand shoots out and grabs Peter’s shoulder. The warmth of it guiding her firmly back into life better than anything else ever could.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Peter shields his ears as her scream fills the air. He feels ill in the aftermath as the tranquilizer begins to spread, but when he opens his eyes, the orderlies have been thrown halfway across the hall.

“Did you...do _that_?”

Lydia sways again, nods, then realizes Peter isn’t looking at her, but at the orderlies before them. “Yes,” she manages to croak out in a whisper, hoping that she won’t need to talk again for a while; the scream combined with whatever they gave her isn’t doing her vocal chords any favors.

Feeling steadier, though, she steps away from Peter, only to move to stand right in front of him, offering her hand. It’s a little ridiculous thinking that she’ll be able to hoist him up and support him as they continue. She’s not fooling herself into thinking they can stay here and recover, but she doesn’t exactly have any other choice.

Peter looks at her hand and raises an eyebrow before grasping it. “We better hurry,” he says, trying to make light of the situation. “I don’t think I have much time.”

Pushing to his feet, he ends up ungracefully yanking her along. He hopes the exit is near.

She nods, deciding against speaking again. As he stands, she gets yanked towards him, but she doesn’t find herself afraid as they collide a little.

The door before them is their only option. Thinking of the path, she points at the door, then jerks her thumb left, hoping he catches her meaning. After that, she jerks her thumb right and makes a gesture that to her at least indicates a door, the last door hopefully. If her memory is right, that will take them to the grounds and they can find their own way from there.

Maybe when they’re safe she can suck a whole bag of cough drops; maybe that would make her throat feel better. She squeezes their still joined hands in both comfort and solidarity.

Following her instructions, Peter makes it out the door. He sees guards in the distance, but wanting to avoid them, he makes a dash in the opposite direction and tugs her with him. Realizing they would go quicker if it’s just him, Peter halts and tugs her to him.

“Sorry about this, Lydia,” he says, the words a little slurred, and he hoists her up by the waist over his shoulder before making a run for it.

She sees the guards about a half a second before she hears Peter apologize. On instinct, she nearly asks what he’s apologizing for, except it gets cut off by Peter slinging her over his shoulder like sack of potatoes.

Lydia wants to shriek at the indignity of it because she feels mortified, but her voice gives out before she even can really get started. The world shakes around her with Peter’s movements, and it’s starting to give her a slight case of vertigo. But at least she has a good view of the guards still chasing them.

In a bout of petty revenge, she slaps his shoulder like he’s a horse in an attempt to get him to go faster. If they’re not careful, the guards will catch them.

And then who knows what will happen.

He grunts at her slap, but runs faster, even as his own head swims with vertigo. They fly off the grounds into the woods, and Peter cuts an uneven trail to lose the guards. Before long, the flashlights are gone and they are left in darkness, accompanied only by the snap of twigs and Peter’s labored breathing.

At some point, his vision goes out; he falls, stumbling in the bracken, taking Lydia down with him.

Peter opens his eyes to vaulted night sky above his head, windswept with clouds. Vaguely, he registers he is on his back. He opens his mouth, managing one word before passing out.

“Run... ”

Lydia goes flying when Peter stumbles, luckily landing in some loam. She lets herself take a few precious seconds to catch her breath; she might have not done much in the past few minutes, but she feels like she’s run a marathon.

Peter’s voice snaps her back into the present, but she shakes her head at her command. “Not without you,” she hisses, straining her already pained throat.

But Peter doesn’t reply. Half afraid of what she might find, she stumbles over to him; her hands shake as she checks his pulse—steady—and it’s clear he’s still breathing. So unconscious, which is better than dead, but it means she’s got to figure out how to drag him somewhere a hell of a lot safer than this.

But first, she should probably find that safe place. Getting up, she dusts off her pants and looks around for something promising. Something glints in the corner of her eye, and she whirls around to try and see what it is. Maybe a window? People or no, it’d be good to get out of the woods. After a bit of waffling, she decides to go investigate first, _then_ figure out a way to get Peter there.

She’s grateful the that it’s not as far away as it looked. It’s a small cabin, seemingly abandoned. Peering into all the nearby windows, she sees a kitchen, a living room, and two doors; also a lot of dust.

Satisfied that they’d be relatively safe, she returns to Peter. Looking down at him, she sends him a mental apology before grabbing his arms and dragging him over towards the house.

It takes her longer than she’d like; he’s _heavy_ , but she manages it. She tries the door, sending up a prayer of thanks that it opens without any sort of effort. Her own body about to give up, she spends the last of her energy getting Peter inside and onto the couch, a little grateful that he’s not conscious to experience that.

Her own eyes drooping now, she closes the door and locks it, before stumbling over to the windows and closing the curtains. That done, she groggily makes her way back to Peter and collapses onto him, slipping into exhausted sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite sure when we'll have the next chapter up, we've already RPed a lot more than this, but it's Helholden being an awesome woman and turning it into 'prose' and it still takes her a while. Hopefully soon though!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Finally.
> 
> We got so into writing this that we forgot to post...hope the length ~~and the sex~~ make up for our absence however.

Hours must have passed before Peter regains consciousness, his brain a muddy, heavy brick as his eyelids flutter open. It’s dark. There is no light, so his vision slowly adjusts until he realizes it looks like he’s in a house. A house. How did he get in a house? Peter turns his head and tries to move, but his body is heavier than normal. He feels numb. Looking down at himself, it takes him a moment of lagged realization to see that there is another smaller body on top of him, holding him down. Sofa, he notices not a moment later. He’s on a sofa.

He brings an arm over the body atop him, the movement still sluggish, puts a hand on her back, and feels upward until he touches hair. Taking in a deep breath, Peter recognizes her scent. Lydia. It’s Lydia, he realizes, freezing in place.

Her face is buried against his chest along with her arms, trapped between their bodies, and she is asleep.

Peter isn’t sure how to process this. He thinks about getting up and looking around, investigating the house and where he is at, but even though he’s awake, the tranquilizer still hasn’t completely worn off. His mind woke up first before the majority of his body has caught up. Half of it is still numb, unfeeling. His fingers move along her back, but he doesn’t feel them, just his palm. His legs, those are still useless.

He reaches up with the other hand and wraps that arm around her, too. This one feels, and before he can really think about it, he rubs his hands up and down her back before sliding the one that isn’t numb into her hair against the back of her head. He wants to get up and look around, but if it has to wait, he can lay here until the feeling comes back to his body. It’s still dark. He closes his eyes, clenching his fingers in her hair.

Lydia awakes slowly, awareness seeping back into her slowly. Peter’s warm beneath her, and she can feel his hands on her: one in her hair, the other rubbing up and down her back. She makes a pleased hum, the sound barely audible to her.

Still, she feels worlds better than she did earlier.

After a bit of wiggling, she manages to get her phone out. Their current position isn’t exactly the most conducive to conversation, but her throat’s still pretty wrecked from her scream even if the drugs have likely worn off, but she feels too indolent to move.

_We’re in an abandoned cabin I found._ It seems prudent to get that out of the way first.

He freezes when she moves, and when she aims the bright screen of her phone at him, Peter squints at the light and reads it. “Okay,” he says in a low voice, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He wants to ask how she got him here, but she must have dragged him. Briefly, he’s thankful for quick healing.

Peter is silent after that. He doesn’t know what to say. At least away from Eichen House, he feels just a little bit more like himself. Maybe it was all the wolfsbane, slowly poisoning him. He missed the last dosage. Maybe two.

Noticing his squinting, she rapidly turns down her screen’s brightness; it’s dark enough in here that it was a little too bright for her, too.

The silence is nice, and it feels good to relax after such a harrowing experience, and she was only there for ten or so minutes. She can’t imagine what Peter’s feeling.

“I can't feel my legs,” he finally blurts out conversationally.

She blinks at him at his outburst, never expecting him to speak so impulsively. She’s used to him picking and choosing his words carefully.

But she’s not sure how she’s supposed to respond, except to think it’d be a bitch to get him away if anyone stumbles across them here.   
  
 _Permanently?_ She doubts it the moment she finishes typing it out and shakes her head. Changing the thread of conversation, she types out: _hungry?_ She thinks she’s starting to get there herself, but she doesn’t want to move, or actually find out what little food this cabin has.

A wave of nausea passes over him at the mention of food, and Peter squeezes his eyes shut after reading the word. He’s still a little loopy; the meds aren’t completely gone, but the last thing he wants right now is food. He shakes his head over answering her out loud. Peter lays still, taking a deep breath.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Peter actually turns green at her mention of food, the thought managing to bring a smile to her face.

When he opens his eyes again, Lydia is looking at him. It’s quiet, dark, and his head is full of too much. Without really thinking about what he is doing, Peter slips his hand from the back of her hair and runs his fingers down the side of her face. At least these fingers can feel, they aren’t numb. He rolls his head to the side, looking at her from a different angle, his fingers falling to her chin.

Peter wants to ask what she was doing in Eichen, but she can’t speak. What’s the point? He doesn’t want to have a typed conversation with her right now, so he forgoes words.

Idly, his thumb traces the center of her chin. It’s soothing, for some reason. Hell, he can’t remember the last time a woman lay on top of him. While he can, he’ll soak up the moment and blame it on the meds later.

The mood for her changes when he moves his hand from her hair to her face, his fingers leaving heat in their wake. It’s intimate, reminding her of their brief moment in the storage closet. A, hopefully, faint blush stains her cheeks.

But it makes her want to kiss him again, to know what it’d be like to be able to take their time.

Instead she scoots up a little, pressing her chin into his hand brushes her nose against his, Eskimo kisses, a smile pulls at her lips as she pulls away just a fraction.

Honestly, Peter doesn’t expect her receptiveness. He freezes again, feeling both ill at ease and yet comforted by the innocent brush of her nose to his. Aside from Meredith, it’s been too long since someone even bothered to touch him in this way. It’s such a small thing, and yet it’s not. Emotionally wrecked and vulnerable from everything he has been through at Eichen, Peter responds in the only way he knows how.

He angles his head just a portion below hers and pushes up to kiss her.

At his kiss, Lydia feels her phone clatter from her hands. Not that she’s all that bothered by the fact, since it frees her hands to do something more important. Namely tangle into Peter’s hair, nails scratching against his scalp.

She sighs into the kiss and opens her mouth in invitation, finding herself torn between wanting soft or hard. Although she’s sure either way she’ll enjoy it.

What starts as a normal press of lips descends into a fuller kiss as her lips part above his, and Peter parts his lips as well, snaking his tongue into her mouth to find hers. The feeling returns to his other hand, fingers beginning to tingle as they awaken, and he grips her back, his hand falling to her waist. In no time flat, the kiss gets out of hand. Kindness and intimacy in a simple touch, Peter doesn’t know how to respond to it in a way that isn’t sexual. He hasn’t really had the experience.

The feeling hasn’t completely returned to his legs, but some of it’s there. Enough for him to wrap his arm around her waist and roll them over until he is on top of her, and then he can use the pressure of basic gravity to push into her and deepen the kiss, his hand running up her side and rucking the fabric in its wake.

Lydia eagerly welcomes his tongue, tangling it up in hers as the kiss deepens into something more carnal.

Familiar territory for Lydia, one she excels in.

His hand pressed at her back, pushing them even closer together. Impossible not to notice the fact he’s growing hard beneath her. A tiny moan escapes her.

The hand loosens, but not for long, and before she can even think about it, their positions are reversed and he’s pressing down on her inescapably; not that she wants to.

His hand feels as hot as a branding iron as it slides up her side, goose bumps rise up in it’s wake as the chill of the cabin attempts to get in.

She pushes up against him, seeking more. Her nipples ache, the scratchy material of her Eichen clothes not helping the situation, and she can feel herself starting to get wet. She widens the cradle of her hips, another moan slipping from her.

Out of hand barely describes it, his mouth widening to cover hers more and his hand slips under her shirt to escape the rough material and touch smooth skin. He grows hard at the contact, her moans and the spread of her legs causing him to roll his body into hers.  
  
Peter wants more; of course he wants more, so he slides his hand back down her side, his hand having almost brushed a breast but not quite on its way up, fingers itching to get to her waistband and slip underneath that. But he pauses as his palm glides over the scars he left in her skin. His whole body stills, lips immobile, and he pulls back from her to look down at the spot where his hand now rests over the raised flesh.  
  
He lets out a shaky breath, fingers gliding carefully over her scars, tracing them with the pads of his fingertips.  
  
“I did that,” Peter finally says, his voice filling the silence.

Lydia feels alive. It’s heady and wonderful and exactly what she needs right now. His hips roll into hers, and she bucks her hips up, prolonging the contact. His touch teases, not quite at her breast before it moves down and she whimpers at the denial. And then he stops, pulls away just like before, and she finds herself angry, rising up to pull him into another kiss.

But then he speaks, and she realizes where his is hand is resting. The one part of her she never lets anyone touch; except Peter’s there again, this time only with the hot brand of his fingertips instead of claws, shockingly intimate despite everything they’ve already done.

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice slightly scratchy from her raw throat. There isn’t any accusation in her voice; it’s been well over a year and a half and to hold something so vain as ruining her skin and swimsuit choices against him is stupid.

But it’s clear he’s fixated on it. Since he’s risen up, she rolls over a little onto her side, giving him full access to it.

The last guy who touched it she tossed out of her bed; except this is Peter, the man who did it, the one she should be afraid of above all others. But he’s protected her, helped her and only asked a little in return—seriously, a name for helping her and Scott get into Stiles’ mind?

At the moment, she’s not sure what she wants, except maybe to experience the full relief of freedom. So she grabs the wolf by the tail. “You could make it up to me.” At least her throat cooperates and sounds more sexy than rough.

When she turns onto her side to give him better access to the scar on her skin, Peter cuts his eyes to her face. He isn’t sure how to react to that, to a move that displays a clear sense of trust in him, and he looks back down at the rigid marks in her flesh. A small measure of guilt hits him, but it doesn’t last very long, masked by a feeling of possessiveness that grows as his fingers circle around the raised edges.  
  
Hearing her voice again makes him look up once more, and Peter finds himself raising an eyebrow at her remark. “Make it up to you?” he asks, repeating the words. If he were a normal man, he might grin and take full advantage of the situation immediately, but he’s never quite been on the same wavelength as everyone else. Peter tilts his head, hand stilling at her side. “And how do you propose I do that, Lydia?”  
  
They just escaped out of an asylum. This newfound intimacy, pleasant though maybe not fueled by the best of reasons, could be very relieving but potentially damaging.  
  
Then again, she is a grown woman now. She can make her own decisions.

The feeling of his fingers in her scar is fast becoming pleasant, and she finds something comforting about it.

Yet they still and Peter’s words bring things home for her.

She’s sure she could ask for sex and they’d have it and there would be some measure of relief, but is that what she really wants right now? The low buzz of pleasure still in her says yes, and damn the consequences; but the rest of her?

Unbidden, a sob escapes her and she twists, pressing herself against him once more. Not for physical pleasure but for the comfort of human contact. Her arms wrap tightly around his back, sliding under his own scratchy shirt and relishing the feel of his skin, and she presses her face into his neck not caring about the tears she’s drenching him in.

Once she starts crying, Peter instantly regrets his words. A turned on Lydia, he could have dealt with that easily, but now she's full-on sobbing against him and Peter has no idea what to do.  
  
That’s not entirely true. Peter knows what to do, it’s just a matter of doing it.  
  
Uncomfortably, he shifts his back against the sofa and turns her with him until they’re both on their sides and laying against each other. He keeps the top arm over her, the other trapped between her and the couch, and rubs a hand over Lydia’s back.  
  
Peter frowns at himself. He really should have just kept his mouth shut and kissed her, he muses with a sigh.

She barely registers their change in position, except to absently realize it’s easier to embrace him; although she can feel her arm beneath him starting to go numb.

Her tears don’t subside, but after the initial rush they do slow, and she feels like she can breath again, even if they are close to sobs.

They might be free of Eichen house, but she’s not free of the fear that probably landed her there. She slides her head down from his neck to his chest, bracing herself to speak. If she says it then maybe it’s true, but if she doesn’t speak it she knows it’ll plague her and keep her from going forward.

“I think everyone’s dead,” she says it whisper soft, and not just to spare her throat.

It’s true she hasn’t screamed to herald a death since she came to Eichen, but the two or so hours before she came to Eichen are a blur in her mind, and for all she knows she screamed loud and long then.

Pressing her nose to his shirt, she breaths in, but it smells of Eichen and it makes her shudder. “But I can’t remember Peter,” it comes out a plea, but for what she’s not sure.

A cold chill seeps down his spine. He ought to be gentle with her in her state, but Peter pulls back and grasps her chin, forcing it up until they are face to face.  
  
“Lydia,” Peter commands firmly, enunciating her name as well as each following word, “what happened?” Never mind that she just said she didn’t remember, not when she just told him she thinks everyone is dead. “Tell me everything.”

She shudders again, feeling too cold not pressed right up against him. Unwrapping the arm on top of him, she dashes away her tears, attempting to compose herself.

“We, we were going to talk to Morrell, she said there was something we needed to know about Eichen, and Scott insisted we all come.” ‘Safety in numbers.’ Stiles’ joke falls flat, though. And now she wonders if what Morrell wanted to tell them was what she experienced.

“A few days before that Scott had finally agreed to let Theo,” does it matter that Peter doesn’t know who that is? “Join the pack, and we were still working out how to fit him in.” For the first few hours, she’d believed he was going to try and pursue her romantically, but it never happened. “But we all crammed into Stiles Jeep,” even then it was a tight fit with eight teens. “We’d told her to meet us at the Nemeton, that it would be safe there.”

She exhales shakily. “After that, I don’t remember. Everything’s dark, like something came in and cut out my memories.” An old fear, one that Peter himself instilled in her, rears its ugly head; the idea that there’s something inside her, playing with her. She gives a small cry and buries her face between him and the couch cushion, the breakdown returning full force.

Despite putting her face back in the cushion, Peter doesn’t relent in his questions. “Why the Nemeton?” he asks, his eyes darting back and forth as his mind tries to process the information. “Why there?”

Anger begins to burn through her at Peter’s questions and she pulls away, dislodging most of his hold on her, through her arm is still trapped between them. “How should I know, Peter,” she snaps. “I didn’t exactly think to ask Scott why he chose the place he seems to get most of his power from.” Sarcasm drips from her every word.

Peter ignores her anger, unaffected by it, and quickly sits up on the couch. His head swims in protest at the sudden movement as he turns left to look at the wall, expecting a window and finding one, and warily stares at the curtain. He leans forward, pulling it back an inch with the back of his hand and gazing out into the darkness.

“We shouldn’t stay here too long, but we can’t leave too soon either,” Peter says, talking mostly to himself. “We need a plan. Going out there unarmed could be suicide, and if your friends are dead, I don’t have any to make up for our lack of numbers.”

Part of her hates Peter withdrawing from her like this, but that part’s selfish and mean and she shoves it mercilessly to the side, no matter how much she likes it.

The rest of her just feels like a wrung out sponge; a little dehydrated and, her stomach rumbles, hungry.

Since reality intruded upon them once again she pulls away, bending off the couch to scoop up her phone and flicking on the flashlight app pans it across the cabin. She’d noticed a kitchen earlier, but she doesn’t hold any hope of it containing edible food. “Find somewhere actually safe.” It’s a good first priority, and means they’ll have somewhere to retreat to if things start going wrong.

Thinking about it for a few more seconds, she suggests, “The vault?” After all, only a Hale can open it, and with Derek out of town and Malia possibly dead, Peter’s the only Hale in town. “And real clothes.” They still look like they escaped a mental hospital, and that draws attention to them. “And food,” she finally adds, giving in to her mind’s demand for food.

Peter looks over at her. “Good suggestion,” he agrees. He tilts his head. “But,” Peter adds pointedly, “we have to be prepared for the possibility of someone already waiting outside of it.”  
  
He casts his eyes into the kitchen ahead and nods toward it. “You check for food. I’ll check the place for clothes.” Peter gets up from the couch with a fresh purpose in mind, feeling invigorated already. He makes it three feet across the floor and stops suddenly, looking up the dark staircase to the second floor.  
  
“On second thought,” Peter adds, turning to face Lydia again. “Don't leave my sight.”

She’s already halfway to the kitchen after he makes his announcement about not leaving his sight. Huffing, she turns to face him and crosses her arms. “You can’t have it both ways, Peter.” Being waspish with him is easy, familiar territory; it at least makes more sense than the whole rest of her day.

Peter narrows his eyes at Lydia before heading into the kitchen, following her footsteps. “And if I go upstairs and somebody snatches you?” he says, walking right up to the cupboards and pulling them open. “I’m not so confident your throat is healed enough to produce another scream like the one you did earlier.”

His words hit and she flushes; and to think that five minutes ago they were cuddling like lovers. “Pot meet kettle,” she snaps because he can’t really throw stones considering his own physical state.

She yanks her own set of cupboard doors open and finds a can of bean, but the expiration date is so old that she shoves the can back onto the shelf with a definite mental nope. Maybe if it’s the only thing they find she’ll chance it, but she hopes there’s something in here that’s not older than her. “Christ,” she mutters to herself.

If this is the food situation, she dreads what clothes, if any, they might find in this place.

He lets her comment slide, smirking at her response. He is feeling more like himself with each passing second. Peter could make an obstinate display of strength, but he’s really not in the mood, and Lydia is hardly one to be impressed with overt enactments of masculinity.  
  
Opening another cupboard, Peter does find something, though. “Pasta,” he announces cheerfully, brandishing the box. “Never goes bad. Good luck finding sauce to go with it, though.” He tosses it onto the counter.

Almost like he’d planned it that way, and to be honest she wouldn’t put it past him, the box comes to a stop right next to her. “Great,” she snipes, feeling more comfortable in speaking normally—though she still won’t be screaming anytime soon. “Now all we need is water, a pot, and heat and we can eat like kings.” Dry pasta sounds about as appetizing as sawdust.

Peter’s probably not going to like that their only potential heat source looks to be like the fireplace. There is a stove, but she’s more than willing to bet that the gas, electricity, or whatever it ran on got cut off long ago.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices what looks like a pantry and heads over, throwing open the narrow door. Shining her phone light into it, she notices something red shoved into a corner. Reaching in she snags it, grateful that it feels like plastic and not something out of a horror movie.

It’s jerky. She checks the date. It’s from last year, but the bag’s unopened and she can’t see or feel any openings, so she’ll risk it. “I found jerky,” she tells him. At the very least it’ll have some nutritional value, even if it’s mostly sodium.

Tearing open the bag, her mouth waters at the meaty smell. Normally, she’d never touch jerky, but desperate times. She takes a large chunk and tears off a bit before finally turning around and offering the bag to Peter.

Peter almost declines the beef jerky, but his stomach feels empty and he knows it’ll catch up with him soon. He accepts the bag and grabs some out of it, tearing into a piece and casting his eyes back at the staircase. “We should probably go ahead and see if there’s any clothes to wear,” he says after chewing. Peter has some manners, after all. “At the very least, we’ll find some money upstairs and we can buy food at a diner.” He glances around the cabin, noticing the fine but rustic decor. “These types always have money lying around.”

She snorts as she takes another bite of jerky, which tastes vaguely horrible but not rancid at least. She never thought out of the two of them that Peter would be the more optimistic. “This place wasn’t exactly locked up tight when I found it. But by all means,” she gestures towards the stairwell with an arched eyebrow, daring him to amaze her.

Peter gives Lydia a prolonged look at her snort, but makes his way toward the staircase. He peeks into the rooms as they pass until he finds what looks like a study and pushes his way inside. There is a desk, a chair, bookcases, and a trunk. Peter walks right up to the trunk, which is covered with an old, tattered sort of tablecloth, noticing the shorter square underneath it.  
  
Crouching down, he yanks back the cloth, revealing a trunk and a small dial knob safe. Glancing up at Lydia with a smile, Peter cocks his head. “You were saying?”  
  
Peter wastes no time. He turns back to the safe and smashes his fist into the top of the tiny door, crushing it until it pokes outward and he can grab it and rip it off. Inside, there is a stack of bills and some jewelry. Peter ignores the jewelry, taking the wad of cash before standing up.  
  
“Normally, I’m not a thief, but drastic times call for drastic measures,” he tells her, turning away from Lydia and heading back to the door to search the other rooms.

She harrumphs at his smug tone, not willing to stoop to his level this time. Though, really, an unlocked cabin in the middle of nowhere? She’s surprised there's still stuff to be picked over.

The jewelry catches her eye, and she nearly goes and picks through it just to have something pretty and nice, but she retreats after Peter. Despite her protests earlier, she’s loathed to be away from him too long herself.

“For your next trick, are you going to find a bra that will actually fit me?” She’s still bitter about that; underwire, so dangerous. 

The bite in her tone makes him smile, and he has to mess with her just because. “Oh, Lydia,” he mock laments over his shoulder, pushing into a bedroom, “you’re beautiful just the way you are.”  
  
Peter walks right up to the closet and pulls both doors open at the same time, hoping this place doesn’t belong to a couple from the baby boomer generation.

If it weren’t their only food, she would gladly chuck the bag of jerky at his head—maybe she should have kept that can of beans after all; not even caring if he’d catch it before it did any real damage to him. As it stands, she fumes at his back and flips him off.

While he rummages through the closet, at this point she doesn’t even care if what she gets isn’t ‘fashion forward,’ she just wants some real clothes. She flops onto the bed, sending up plums of dust that have her sneezing; she hopes it does the same to him.

To his great luck, Peter manages to find trousers that should fit him, though all of the shirts have collars. He frowns, grabbing a blue one and settling on that. He realizes only belatedly that Lydia isn’t bothering to search through the closet. At quick glance, none of the women’s clothing is anything but appropriate. They all look too big, though, save for a loose, flowy floor length summer dress in faded red with little daisies printed all over it. Peter takes it down and approaches the bed, holding it out to Lydia.  
  
“Will this do?” he asks her, his voice nothing but serious in his inquiry.

She stares at the dress for a moment, internally aghast. But still she sits upright and snatches the dress from his hands. “Turn around.” She’ll only be able to see if it ‘does’ by trying it on, though she can tell it’s going to need hemming at the very least.

Peter raises his brow at her request, tossing the clothes he picked out for himself onto the bed beside her and rolling his eyes as he turns around and walks a few feet away. He crosses his arms, but he doesn’t disobey her command and attempt to sneak a peek.

Quickly, she shucks off her clothes, eager and happy to be rid of them.

The dress itself is a halter-top with one of those in-set bras, which is nice sure, though it doesn’t fit as well as she’d like; it’d do for now, though. As for the skirt...

It pools around her feet, making her look, and feel, like a child trying on her mom’s clothes. “You can turn back around,” she says. And maybe she can get him to put those claws of his to good use in hacking off the excess fabric, she could start a new trend: ragged hemlines.

Peter turns back around. The dress is pretty with her hair and fair skin, if too long on her. He approaches the bed again and scoops up the shirt he picked out, sniffing it and making a face. “Ugh, mothballs.”

He tosses it back down and grabs the hem of the Eichen shirt, yanking it off. Peter doesn’t bother with asking Lydia to turn around; he isn’t embarrassed by his physique and it doesn’t bother him. He throws the shirt onto the ground and grabs the other one, pausing halfway into sliding one arm through the center before he realizes he could really use a shower. Surely, there’s got to be one here.

“I’m going to see if this place has a bath,” Peter tells her, dropping the shirt back onto the bed. “I could really use an actual shower.”

Her mouth dries up a little at the sight of him half-naked. Sure, she’s seen him completely naked, twice even, but those weren’t exactly intimate situations like this.

She starts at his words, though now that he mentions it she could use a shower too, wash off the final dregs of Eichen.

“If there is I call dibs,” she says with a haughty sniff. She’ll play dirty of she has to but that first shower his hers.

Peter actually feels his head draw back at her words, eyes widening. “Excuse me?” he says. He was the one who said it first, and he’s not above being petty over it. “I’ve been in Eichen much longer than you.”

“Length of stay means nothing.” Her eyes dart to the other door in the bedroom. It’s most likely a bathroom, but the question is if it’s got a shower in it.

A logical part of her points out that a cabin like this probably has more than one shower, but that’s not the point of this.

Not that she’s sure what the point is, only that it’s sending thrills up her spine.

Deciding to risk it, she strips off the dress in record time and races to the door in only her underwear.

Peter knew she was going to make a run for it before she did it. What he didn’t expect was for her to strip the dress off first, distracting him unfairly with the sight, before she runs past him.

He scrambles quickly to follow, but Lydia makes it into the bathroom first all the same. Still, that isn’t going to stop him and he isn’t above playing dirty. He loses the pants once he’s past the door and climbs into the wide bath stall that rests inside before Lydia can climb in, figuring if he claims it in naked glory that Lydia will bow this one out. He is getting that shower first.

She growls in annoyance when Peter shoves past her, shucks his pants, and steps into the tub. If he thinks that’s enough to dissuade her, he’s got another think coming. Because he seems to be forgetting she’s seen it all before.

Her own panties go flying, and she reaches for the water knob, giving it a vicious twist all the way to the left.

The pipes clunk valiantly, then promptly spray Peter with rust-orange water. She cackles.

And once the water runs clean steps in to join him; problem solved really.

If one’s willing to ignore the new problem, that is.

Peter swears loudly. The initial spray is ice cold, and the water is dirty. He can live with dirty water, but he quickly moves against the wall and reaches down to adjust the temperature. Ignoring her cackle until the water turns clear, Peter walks under the spray and lets it clean him off from the grime that came out first.

He looks over his shoulder to see if Lydia is there, but she isn’t standing outside of the tub. Peter looks around the room, finally turning completely until he’s facing her right behind him. Shock fills him first that she’s even in there with him. Apparently, his nudity does not dissuade her.

“Well, then,” Peter says, and it’s surprisingly easy to keep his eyes on only her face. “If you’re comfortable with sharing.”

“Oh please, Peter, you’re acting like you’ve never been naked with me before.” Granted both time’s she’s always been clothed, and she’s still not sure if he’s ever seen her naked.

He leans close to her, though more to the left, to grab one of the bottles off of the shelf just slightly behind Lydia. He glances down at the bottle. It’s shampoo. Peter hums at the discovery. “I’m going to smell like peaches,” he says, reading the label.

She tenses when his hand reaches past her, and she rolls her eyes at his comment. “There are worse things to smell like.”

Of course in their current position, he’s hogging all the water. “Move so I can get my hair wet,” she snaps, more than willing to bluster this out.

Peter almost responds to that, but it’s not himself who he was counting on being uncomfortable. It was her. If it doesn’t bother Lydia, then it doesn’t bother her.

He steps to the side, allowing her room to pass by him, and is finally unable to control the path of his eyes as they cast downward over her body whenever she slips by him. No, he’s never seen her naked before, but she is definitely something underneath all of the clothes, too.

She resists the urge to brush up against him as she passes him, focusing instead on stepping under the spray and getting all of her hair wet, relishing the hot water.

Peter bites his lip briefly and pushes the thought away. Now is not the time for that. As soon as Lydia is past him, he faces the water spray again but keeps distance between their bodies.

Hair sufficiently damp she thrusts a hand back, only recoiling a little when it bumps his chest. “Shampoo,” she commands.

If she focuses on getting clean, maybe she can ignore the fact that there’s a very handsome naked man behind her.

Busy staring at her backside and enjoying the view as the water cascades down her back and over her curves, Peter barely registers the hand bumping into his chest until he notices the recoil, too.  
  
He almost apologizes. Almost. Lydia’s command erases that thought promptly, and Peter nearly goes to hand her the shampoo bottle but decides on something a little different.  
  
Popping the cap and pouring some in his own hand, he puts the bottle down and steps closer, but not too close, and very carefully—so as not to startle her—places the hand against her hair at the back.  
  
Peter waits just a second, though, to see if he’s gone too far.

She half expects him to be petty about the shampoo, so her hand being moved off to the side as he steps closer catches her way off guard.

And when his hand comes to rest at the back of her head? She pauses for a second, then reasons that if she nearly had sex with him earlier, she can stand to let him was her hair. “Your fingers better be damn clever, Peter.” She waggles her still there hand. “And hand me the body wash and loofah.” At least, she hopes they have a loofah, otherwise things might get worlds more...awkward.

Smiling at her response, his hand presses more fully against her head, spreading the shampoo, before being joined by his other hand. Fingertips gently massage into her scalp, sliding to the front and working their way along the hair at her temples before swooping behind her ears. He has to step closer to bring his hands together along the drape of her drenched tendrils in the back, working the suds in all over her hair without tangling it.

They move back to the top of her hair, gliding slow circular patterns against her head. Instinctively, Peter wants to make a snarky comeback about the cleverness of his fingers until he considers she will likely have a biting retort already prepared for it.  
  
Instead, he leans close to her ear and says in a lower voice, “Is this clever enough for you?” At her second demand, Peter glances around the stall, but sees no loofahs. “Hm, no loofahs. But—” His hands fall from her hair, only to pass a bottle around to her. “There’s the body wash. Now, may I get under the water?”

When Peter’s hands start their massage, it’s all she can do to make indecent happy noises. And when he steps closer and breaths in her ear, she can’t help but shiver. His question sends sparks down her spine.

Still, she’s not going to give away any more than she has to. “Mmm, they’re alright. Could use some work, though.”

Woefully, she takes the body wash. Stepping off to the side to let him pass, she glances around herself, studiously ignoring him, in search of even a wash cloth, anything to be a bit of a barrier between hands and body. No such luck.

Well, she’s blustered her way this far, might as well go all the way. She slathers her hands in gel, soaping her front up while he has his back to her, doing her damn best to bite back every sound she wants to make every time her hands brush her nipples or get close to her slit.

That finally done, she soaps up her hands again and steps nearly right up to Peter’s back, focusing on the way his muscles move she sets her hands on his back and begins working the soap in.

Truthfully, he didn’t expect her to lather him in praise. He bites back a smirk and lets Lydia have her moment, though he’s certain she enjoyed it. When she steps aside to give him room, Peter walks under the spray and closes his eyes and just lets it run over his face for about a minute before he shampoos his much shorter and easier to wash hair. His hands scrub it down rougher than he was with her because his hair hasn’t seen a good day of washing since he was thrown into that hellhole.

Another thing he doesn’t expect is for Lydia to lather him up literally either. Peter flinches at the contact and pulls away from her, attempting to avoid a potentially embarrassing situation. He can shower with her just fine, even wash her hair, but if she starts rubbing her hands over his body, he’s going to get turned on and there won’t be anything to cover it up.

“You don’t have to do that,” he finally says, keeping the distance between them, and slips back under the spray to rinse off the soap she rubbed into his back.

His stepping away is an out. She could just shrug it off and let things go as is and never mention it again, his words making explicit.

But part of Lydia doesn’t care. She wants to do something wild and potentially stupid. Feel alive just for a little bit; actually acknowledge the arousal in her.

So she steps up to his back again, hands rising up to massage at his neck. “But, Peter,” she says, giving a mock pout, even if he can’t see it. “I thought you didn’t do anything for free. I’m just paying you back for the hair.”

The hands on his neck still him. The neck is safer territory; he won’t get aroused at that, so he lets out a slow breath as he allows Lydia to touch him.  
  
He relaxes into it, the spray of hot water drumming against his chest and lulling him into a peaceful state with her hands working into his neck muscles, slick with soap. Lydia’s words barely register. Peter opens his eyes at them.  
  
“That was its own reward,” he says, trying to tease, but it just comes out gravelly.

She makes a sound somewhere between agreement and pleasure. She might agree with him, but now that she’s started she doesn’t want to stop. Her hands effortlessly slide from his neck to his shoulders, fingers pressing deep to get at stubborn knots.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to leave a job half finished.” That would just be rude after all.

A grunt escapes him in a wordless response, and he places a hand against the wall in front of him. The tiles are slick under his hand. It feels good to have this small thing done for him after all of the crouching in his cell, the hard steel posts he slept on under a thin cot. Peter hadn’t realized so much tension had built up in him in there.  
  
Her hands pass lower, and his body begins to respond. He tries his best to ignore it, thinking if he just doesn’t focus on it that maybe it will go away. Her hands feel so good against his muscles, though, smoothing over his skin.  
  
Peter snorts. “Be careful what you promise, Lydia,” he warns her, his voice now dangerously low.

His words send sparks of awareness through her, but she’s committed and isn’t going to back off. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

Her hands glide across his shoulders and down to the arm he’s not using to brace himself; potentially more dangerous territory than even his shoulders considering what he’d said about them in Eichen.

So she keeps her touch lighter there, more petting than an actual massage.

Her touch lightens as she passes to his arm. They haven’t bothered him since he woke up. There are no scars. He would know what they might have done to him if it weren’t for his healing.  
  
It was a joke, though. As selfish as he can be and despite some of the things he’s done, he wouldn’t expect her to finish it off with a happy ending just because his body responded to her.  
  
Peter clears his throat, coming back to reality, and pushes off of the wall to rub his hands over his face. He walks around her, pretending he isn’t half-hard and trying to hide it with the angle of his body, freeing up the spray for Lydia to rinse off underneath.

“It’s all yours,” he says.

She doesn’t bother to hide her pout when he breaks away and moves aside for her to use the shower.

Perfunctorily, she rinses her hair. Then on impulse she grabs the bottle of body wash and thrusts it back to him. “Wash my back?” She even manages to make it sound innocent.

She’s not sure if she’s playing some version of sexual chicken or what, but she has to admit she’s certainly enjoying herself.

He glances down at himself. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” Peter admits, going with full honesty rather than a cheap excuse.  
  
The idea of accidentally brushing her with something other than his hands shuts that idea down rather quick.

He sounds honest, which is surprising, and she finds herself torn about whether to keep pushing or not.

Push, she decides, but not about this.

She turns the water off—no need to waste more than they already have—and moves to face him, not bothering to hide the way her gaze drifts down. He had no problem showing off when he was flaccid. Did he think she was going to run screaming if she saw him aroused?

It’s just a cock, she reminds herself. Even if his is a bit more impressive than most she’s had. Feeling more bold than she actually is, she steps towards him, a hand coming up to rest on his chest.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” her voice has its own rough edge to it now, her earlier scream making itself known. “But if you’d like...” She looks up at him through hooded eyelashes. “I could take care your little ‘problem’ first.”

His breath comes more fully than before as her hand rests on his chest. His own eyes are hooded, the desire rushing back into him at her invitation. His lip twitches, and he bites down on it briefly, moving closer to her. “Alright,” Peter says in a deeper voice. He lifts his chin, hardly ashamed if she wants to take it there. “No take-backs,” he adds, murmuring the words. “No pretending this didn’t happen.”

She enjoys feeling his chest rise and fall under her hand, but she has a definite goal in mind. “Of course not,” she agrees as her hand slides inextricably lower.  
  
He leans into her ear, breaking all sense of personal space. “But it’s hardly ‘little,’” he counters, almost sneering the phrase.

Her hand’s on his stomach by the time he steps right in front of her, the heat of him beating back the chill of the cooling water on her skin. A wide grin splits her face at his claim, because he’s right of course, but she does so enjoy needling him.

And just to prove who’s really in control at the moment, she finally wraps her hand around him, the soap making it all to easy to start sliding up and down. And because she can’t resist one more jibe, she rises up on her tip-toes, tilting her head up enough that she just barely reaches his ear. “That’s what they all say, Peter.”

His eyelids flutter closed as she wraps her hand around him and starts sliding easily back and forth, the soapy slickness of the water making it all too smooth. He goes from half-hard to fully erect in a matter of moments, a low rumble filling his chest as he leans his face into Lydia’s neck. His left hand comes up to rest behind her head.  
  
“They may all say it,” Peter murmurs back, playing along with her game, “but I’m actually displaying it at the same time I make the claim.” He turns his face into her. “It’s the last area I would attempt to disappoint.”  
  
Peter didn’t promise no touching. He nudges his way to her throat past damp hair and noses her skin, running his hand along her shoulder and up the nape of her neck. Their chests brush, and he feels her nipples slip along his soaked skin; the contact breaks his resolve, and he thrusts into her hand, groaning.

She manages a throaty laugh, though it turns into a gasp when his nose and hand brush against her skin about the same time her sensitive nipples touch his chest. Glorious sensations race through her.

At his groan and thrust, she tightens her grip just enough and twists her hand down as he jerks up. “Maybe,” she pants, quickly loosing all pretense of being cool and collected. “I should put you through your paces, see if you live up to your own hype.”

She presses her lower body against his, trapping her hand between them, and hums with pleasure.

His breathing quickens when she tightens her hand around him, and a low gasp escapes his lips as he feels her body push up against him, her skin brushing against the sensitive head of his erection.  
  
Composure be damned. They might die, anyway, right?

Anything’s possible, even this.  
  
He grasps the sides of her face with both hands, pulling Lydia forward until their lips are crushing and he can push her into the wall.

She’s only a little annoyed that her hand job gets ‘interrupted’ by Peter kissing her and her back hitting the tile wall. Her other hand wraps around his neck to steady herself.

A gasp escapes her, though, and she finds herself arching against him, her hips rocking against his cock and her hand. “Peter,” she half-moans, there’s one more thing they need to talk about before they get too lost in each other. “Condoms,” it comes out more wrecked than she’d like. “Or no penetration.” And she really means it. She’d rather not end up pregnant because of this.

She slides her up and down his cock again, almost as a sort of apology.

Her comment jolts him back to reality, and Peter’s mouth leaves hers as his face drops to her shoulder. He hits the wall with the side of his fist. “Fuck,” he swears, because no, obviously he doesn’t have any condoms. And neither does she.  
  
He flattens his hand against the tiles. “No,” he says, tone softer than before, resigned to the realization of what that means.

Peter’s fist slamming into the wall beside her startles her, and she jumps a little. But really, he’s acting like it’s the end of the world.

Just to prove how much it isn’t, she pushes him away a little and falls to her knees the second she’s got enough space. She takes the head of him into her mouth without a second thought; he’s still slightly soapy tasting, but she’ll survive. She slides her lips down a little further, her tongue swirling around his tip.

Her initial push makes him rethink his actions; it’s not like he has anyone else to rely on right now, and the last thing he needs to do is piss Lydia off over something like this, but that thought is quickly thrown out the window as she surprises him by lowering to her knees and taking him in her mouth. Instinctively, Peter moves his hands to hold her head, his lips parting at the feel of her warmth surrounding him, and her tongue...  
  
“Bed,” Peter manages to say. The bottom of the tub is still slippery, and he doubts it will be forgiving on her knees.

She kind of likes the feel of his hands in her hair and hums around him.

At his insistence on a bed, she pulls away. “Yes,” she agrees. She can totally do a blowjob on tile, but a bed is so much better.

Letting go of him completely, she stands and lays a kiss on his chest before stepping out of the shower and sashaying her way towards the bed. Who cares if it’s dusty, so long as it doesn’t break beneath them.

Peter lets his eyes follow her, but doesn’t immediately leave the tub. He cuts on the water long enough to rinse the last of the soap off and turns it back off, snatching a towel to ruffle over his hair and run over his body to catch the majority of the moisture before exiting the bathroom with the towel in hand.

Lydia stands by the bed, a smile playing at her lips as she hears the shower turn on briefly. “Trying to make yourself last, Peter?” she teases. Granted she knows it’s not staying power that really matters in bed, and she does have some experience with werewolf refractory periods.

When she sees the towel in his hands, she arches an eyebrow and holds out her own hand expectantly.

He walks right up to her, but doesn’t hand her the towel. Instead, he closes the distance and, towel in hand, slowly begins to brush it over her shoulder, down her arm, and then up her back, pulling her against him until they are pressed together. Peter smiles only slightly, tilting his head as he switches the towel to the other hand and does the same for that side of her body. Finally, he settles it over her hair without blocking her face and gently rubs it over the wet tendrils, leaning forward and capturing her lips in a slow kiss as he does so.

Well, he could take the blowjob. Most guys would, but what he really wants is more than that. It’s Lydia Martin, after all. Peter never entertained the idea of a quick, cheap thrill with her if it ever came to that. This would take some creativity, but that is Peter’s strong-suit.

The first touch of the towel makes her shiver, his slow movements make the pleasure inside her grow. And she finds herself smiling into the kiss as he dries her hair.

When he pulls way she chases after him for a moment, wanting that sweet-slow. A small cry of disappointment escapes her when he leaves her breasts but it doesn't stop her eyes from widening in amazement when Peter crouches in front of her.

Pulling back, he brings the towel from her hair to her chest, carefully drying off her clavicles, breasts, and dips low, catching a nipple between his lips before leaving it just as soon. The towel slides lower, and he follows it until he’s crouched in front of her, lips pressing to her skin as soon as the plush material leaves it dry. He dips his tongue into her belly button for just a moment, kneels on one leg, and moves to bite her hip as the towel passes over her ass.

Peter slides a hand up her inner thigh until he can’t go any further because of her closed legs, raising his eyes to Lydia as he kisses her thigh close to the dip between the two.

A squeak leaves her as his tongue dips into her bellybutton and she flushes. And her knees start to give out when he sets his teeth into her hip. His hand slides, hot and so very _there_ up between her legs and she finds herself sighing at the questioning look Peter gives her.

If he's willing to wait for his pleasure then she's not going to argue. Instead of just answering she gives into her weak knees falling back onto the bed her legs falling open just enough for someone with clever fingers and an even cleverer tongue to worm their way in.

Peter can't help but grin at her response. It's not what he has in mind, but all the more for the surprise.

Placing his lips on her thigh, he mouths his way across her skin further inward, fingers sliding to the center of her legs to tease lightly at her soft skin and the slick heat between it. His thumb glides back and forth, never quite pressing in, as his tongue snakes out to lick her just enough to put the taste of her in his mouth.

It's just a tease, but a well-deserved one.

He's teasing her and she both hates and loves it, a moan leaves her at the first touch of his tongue.

Her hands scramble for something to do and one manages to find it's way into his hair, gripping tightly. "Peter..."

Her legs fall further apart and she cants her hips up. Part of her wants to say something glib about using his tongue, but not now; later when they're both better.

"Please."

He pulls back, leaving the grasp of her hands, and slips both arms underneath her to scoop her up. Carrying her to the headboard, Peter sits down and lowers her legs, pulling her into his lap. He kisses her, deepening it for just a moment, and then helps Lydia to position herself until her legs are on either side of him. Scooting his back to the headboard and pulling her with him using the arm around her waist, Peter brings her close with a hand gripped on her ass until she brushes up his cock, and he sighs against her mouth at the friction.

Slipping a hand beneath her and on her thigh, he urges Lydia up just a little bit.

Another moan escapes her, this time one of disappointment when he leaves her.

But she still lets him move her, settling into his lap far easier than she has any right to. Pressing her mouth greedily to his when he kisses her.

But she breaks away with a soft cry when she feels his cock rub against her. They've barely done anything and she feels like she might burst at the next intentioned touch.

A hand on her thigh urges her upward and she goes, eager for the pleasure. Her hand returns to his hair the other wrapping around his chest pressing her torso against his.

"Stop, teasing," she kisses into his mouth. Not brooking any sort of argument.

"Fine," Peter whispers against her mouth. "I thought we should experience pleasure together instead of taking turns, so-" He captures her lips, delving his tongue past them as he cups her between her legs and slides his fingers through her slickness. Spreading it, Peter curves one finger inside of her and presses his palm against her clit as he rocks his hand in and out. His lips break from hers. "Touch me," he breathes out, wanting to feel her hand at the same time as he feels inside of her. "And make your hand wet."

She cries out when his finger slides and curves inside, her mind barely comprehending Peter's words.

But still they sink in.

Of course she could just spit on her hand to get it wet, but that's certainly not the best way. Leaving the hand in his hair where it is the hand against his back slithers down and around.

Her forehead hits his shoulder as her hand joins Peter's at her entrance, her fingers being less delicate in it's movements. Lips pressing against his chest she gives a sort of whimper moan as she works more to cover her hand in her own juices than give herself pleasure.

She forces herself to stop though, to pull her hand away and wrap her sopping wet fingers around him. "Wet enough for you?" She doesn't sound as confident as she'd like, but she certainly sounds like she's enjoying herself.

It's a little awkward at first, but they manage to make it work; and besides, the way Lydia tries her hardest, her forehead laying on his shoulder as she works with determination for her task, turns him on more than it has any right to. Peter shudders, his stomach clenching, when her fingers finally wrap around him. "Ah," he lets out breathlessly, his face leaning against the side of hers. "Well, if I can't be inside of you..." He kisses her neck, nipping with his teeth, and rocks his hips into her hand as his other arm tightens around her waist. Peter finds a rhythm with the hand positioned between her legs, using just a single finger for now.

At some point, he pulls it out of her long enough to stroke all four fingers slowly and deeply over her clit before returning them back to her entrance and slipping two inside of her instead of one. His lips cover her mouth again. "You know, Lydia, I have amazing stamina and control..." He pecks her lips, teeth dragging afterwards. "This could go on for a long time if it's just your hand..."

_...Then this is the next best thing_ , she finishes mentally.

The scratch of his teeth against her skin makes her buck into his hand, setting her own teeth into his shoulder; wishing she was wearing lipstick so she could mark him in a way that wouldn't vanish the moment her teeth left.

She slides her hand up and down, twisting her wrist as she moves down. Squeezing on her next slide up.

His shoulder muffles her sounds, which she's vaguely grateful for as his fingers glide over her clit: her insides contract, demanding to be filled, to cling to something and she whimpers.

Two fingers feels like heaven and she breaks away gasping, only to have her lips caught by his. She returns the scrape of his teeth with her own. "You're," it comes out a pleasure wracked sob. "The one who put us in this position," literally even.

On her next up stroke she slides her hand a little further up until his head's cupped in her palm and she closes her hand tightly for only a second, fingers loosening as they glide down.

He groans at the ministrations of her hand, the way she squeezes and applies pressure. The change in her pace here or there makes all the difference. Peter shifts upward a little more, raising his knees and bracing his feet on the bed as he roughens the pace of his hand and the fingers he has buried inside of her. She isn't lying, of course; this is his fault.

His teeth nick her bottom lip, and he covers her mouth more fully, deepening the kiss until it's hard to tell where they're joined and where they're not anymore.

His breathing quickens as he finds the perfect rhythm into her hand. "And on the couch," Peter manages to get out. His voice lowers, and he risks foul language, not really knowing if it's her thing or not. "If I hadn't hesitated," he murmurs almost innocently, "would I be fucking you now?" His hand slips from her waist, cupping the back of her head, and he kisses her again before breathing against her lips. "Would you be under me? Legs spread-eagle and begging?" Capturing her mouth, his tongue seeks the heat of her own against it. Peter slides a third finger in with the first two to join them. "Can you feel me?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

There's the briefest flash of pain from his teeth, but it just adds to the pleasure building in her.

The image his words paint is a stark one, but in a way that brings out another whimper from her, hips jerking against his fingers as he plays her expertly. "Yeesss," she feels her nails bite into his scalp. "I'd be, _oooo_ , digging furrows, _ah_ , in your back." He interrupts her with a kiss, and she eats at his mouth, tongue tangling with his in a way their bodies can't.

When his third finger slides in she breaks away once more, falling back with a soft shriek as orgasm crashes over her; sensations she hasn't experienced in a while filling her to the brim. She lets herself lay there for a few seconds, lungs heaving as she tries to re-orient her world.

She's glad she didn't fall far though, her hands keeping her anchored and close to Peter. Falling forward she presses her mouth against his ear, biting into the lobe briefly. "But," she pants, amazed she can still talk. "I wouldn't be begging," She pumps his cock again, letting her nails graze against the delicate skin. "I'd be demanding."

Peter roves over her body with a hungry gaze as she orgasms; he feels it through the fingers he still has in her, sees it in the way her chest quakes across from his, and he moves his hand slower now, but he doesn't stop. Women are beautiful creatures capable of multiple orgasms, and he doesn't want to stop until she begs him to quit.

A hiss leaves his lips as her nails drag along his cock, a bite of pain with the pleasure. Peter hums at her response. "I like a strong woman telling me what to do," he says, pulling his hand out of her enough to focus his thumb back on her clit. He can imagine how sensitive it must still be. He turns close to her ear, breathing against it before flicking his tongue out. "It makes it so much better when she comes apart."

He wants to be inside of her. This is torture. His fingers slide back, pushing deeper into her, and he makes a low noise in his throat as he spreads them and turns Lydia to face him, kissing her and swirling his tongue with hers.

He hasn't felt this alive in years.

"Are you on birth control?" he asks, voice whisper soft to not break the moment with the question. He wouldn't suggest it if she isn't, so he might as well find out first.

She kind of hates him for managing to sound so composed when she's still a wreck.

When his thumb presses against her clit she shudders and cries out again, her walls clinging to the fingers still in her, they're good, even better when they spread to fill more space, but she also knows they're not enough when she's holding something much bigger in her hands.

Somehow their kisses only keep getting better; like the further into pleasure they get, the more experience they gain. And when they break apart his ragged question only pulls her a little from the pleasure, which she's grateful for. "Yes," she whispers back just as quietly.

She understands what he's getting at with that question and her body responds viscerally, a smaller orgasm rippling through her. Her earlier resolve waivers, after all it couldn't have been more than 24 hours since her last pill and she's been taking it long enough that even missing one shouldn't be _that_ much of a risk.

But a million safe sex talks rattle in her head, she's certain werewolves don't have STIs, but pregnancy is nowhere close to being in any of her plans at the moment.

She gives him a brief, sharp kiss before shifting herself up a little so she can rest her forehead against his and look him in the eye. "Convince me it's better," she whimpers, rolling her hips. "That it's worth it." As if to emphasize her point she does her palm head squeeze again.

He raises his eyebrows at that, but tilts his chin up enough to press his lips to hers for just a moment. Her squeeze unearths a grunt from him, and his hand falters. "Well, I'm clean, if that's part of your concern," Peter says, matter-of-factly.

Wrapping his arm around her back, he places his hand behind her head and stares back. "And if it's something else entirely, I told you I have amazing stamina and control. If you need me to pull out beforehand, that isn't an issue..."

He draws his fingers out, applying pressure to only her clit, making her miss the feeling of him filling her. "But I cannot deny," Peter tells her, breathless and full of want, "the undeniable urge to fuck you senseless right now, Lydia Martin. Is it worth it?" He cups her face, brushes a thumb over her bottom lip. "You've been with boys, Lydia." He teases her entrance with the tips of two fingers, rubbing gently, and breathes against her mouth before kissing her quick and curt. "I'm not a boy."

She won't deny she's had fantasies like this, not with Peter but in general a man who knows what he's actually doing. Oh she always made certain that her guy of the moment actually made her orgasm at least once; but that was with pleading and cajoling.

But Peter's already given her one and seems hellbent on torturing another out of her with those maddening fingers of his, teasing her and wrenching a whine from her at their disappearance.

And like before the image his words paint are stark, but oh so pleasurable; him thrusting in her slow and sure, not desperate for his own completion. It's too much and exactly what she wants.

Resisting the urge to close her eyes she keeps staring straight into his as she rises up a little in her knees tilting her hips forward just enough; the hand on his cock takes on a new purpose as she holds it steady and begins sinking down. His blue eyes seem to bore into her, making her want to go as slow as possible.

Part of her wants to keep her mouth shut, to stop this constant stream of sounds from leaving her as he slides in; but what would be the point?

Only halfway in and her body can't take it anymore. Another orgasm tears through her leaving her loose and pliant, her head falls to his shoulder again as the hand holding him falls away. "You're turn," she gasps out.

She kisses his neck, teeth pressing against skin to leave what little hickey she can. An aftershock of her orgasm ripples through her and she bites down harder than she intended, a trickle of blood dripping into her mouth.

She shifts, and he glances down at his lap as he realizes her intention. Peter looks back up to hold her gaze, lips parting further open when he feels her slowly swallow him up. His eyelids flutter, and he leans in, angling his head to kiss Lydia when she moans and he moans with her.

He feels the second orgasm—the ripple that runs through her and makes her shudder, the clenching muscles around him that pull a desperate little sound from his throat that, in any other circumstance, he'd be embarrassed about, but no, not here.

"You are," Peter whispers beside her hair as she lays on his shoulder, "exquisite."

This position simply won't do, though. Not if he wants control. He wraps an arm firmly around her waist and flips them over on the bed, the sudden motion and reversal of weight pushing him further into her, causing Peter to grunt.

He props himself up before taking her knees and pushing them above her waist. Peter doesn't hold them, needing to brace his palms against the bed to prop his weight up, but he does brace his arms under the opening beneath her knees to help keep them in place.

Pulling out until he is only halfway in her, he begins a shallow rhythm of thrusts near the tighter grip at the forefront of her entrance, slow and precise, as their eyes lock together.

Their reversal of position has Lydia breaking away from Peter to cry out. Willingly she lets him position her, the feel of him inside her insistent and so very _there_ , just like Peter himself.

And then he begins thrusting.

"Peter," she moans, half in entreaty, half in annoyance. She wants to wrap her legs around his waist, to make his thrusts go deeper then they are, to feel every inch of him inside her; except his arms prevent that. Her hips move when his do, gaining her a little more than he's clearly intending to give, but she wants all of him. " _Please_!"

Her hands slide around his back, nails sinking into the meat of his shoulders. She finds a smile crossing her face as she realizes in a way they'd already talked about this.

She moves her head in, breaking their gazes, to once again mouth at his ear. "Peter," she grunts as he gives another steady, shallow thrust; like he truly means for this to be marathon sex. "Fuck me." She pulls away, meeting his gaze once more as she drags her nails all the way down to his ass. " _Now_!"

Despite it all, Peter actually finds himself grinning. He slows the rhythm of his hips even more, biting down on his lip as a shudder passes through his back at the nails she digs into him.

"What was that, Lydia?" he asks quietly, rolling his hips instead of thrusting. He meant it when he said she would be begging.

Just in case she doesn't get any bright ideas, Peter finally pins her legs down with his hands, preventing her hips from canting up to meet his.

He _slows down,_ the bastard.

An actual snarl leaves her at his smug tone and at the fact he pins her legs even further, keeping her from doing anything to encourage him.

She knows what he wants of course, but he's going to have to work at it to get her begging. As hard as she can she digs her nails into her ass, actually wishing she had claws of some kind to drive even deeper. "Fuck _me_!" She demands again.

He hisses at her nails, gritting his teeth. Fine, if it's roughness she wants, she'll have it. He can't guarantee how long he'll last that way, though. It's been a long while since he's been inside a woman. Thankfully, his stamina is still better than the average man.

Peter lets go of her legs and lowers his body closer to hers, a hard thrust sending him in all the way. His head falls to her shoulder, a whimper escaping him, as he quakes above her. His right hand slides up the bed, grasping the sheets with a tight clutch.

Bracing both clenched fists against in the fabric, Peter begins a ruthless pace. Each thrust sends him deep inside of her, shattering the illusion of his composure as his body behaves more erratically in this endeavor, and he buries his face into her neck as little noises fill his throat with unwanted vibrations.

She hadn't thought he'd give in so easily, and feels giddy victory as he lets go of her and changes their position slightly.

That giddiness vanishes with his first thrust, and she can't help but throw her head back and _scream_ ; she can't even remember the last time she screamed during sex.

Her hands release his ass, drifting back up to his shoulders and hair, keeping him pressed against her throat.

Her hips attempt to keep up with his pace, but eventually she gives up on trying, instead wrapping them around his waist like she's wanted to in the first place, her body nearly leaving the bed every time she arches against them.

" _Peter_!" She's so close to her third she can almost taste it. " _More. Please_!" Now she really is begging, wanting something she's only ever given herself with a lot of work and determination. " _Please_."

Lifting his face from her neck, Peter focuses his eyes on Lydia's for a moment, but settles for laying his forehead against hers. He gets a grip back on her knees again, taking them off of his waist, and pins them to the bed, giving him more leverage to thrust harder than before.

His hips quicken, but he knows his release is already coming close. Her body draws nearer to milking him sweetly with each torturous pull it gives him whenever he pulls out just enough to not leave her completely, and the push back in drowns him utterly in her heat.

But as for the friction, he angles himself a little higher in her, adding pressure near the top—hopefully, giving her some extra stimulation on her clit given how his hands are busy elsewhere.

She feels him moving her again and nearly complains about it, except that he moves harder, slamming against her with every thrust.

Her breathing gets faster until she's nearly hyperventilating, but her pleasure's building and she's almost there.

Then he somehow moves _up_ hitting her g-spot and...

She wails as her third orgasm crashes through her. Her sight actually blacks out for a few seconds and she feels as limp as a rag doll, only able to lay there as Peter continues. Tiny, ruined whimpers leaving her.

Her orgasm on top of the rough pace and the way she cries out all throw off his balance. Peter falters as a shudder slips down his spine, and forgoing the need the focus on her, he focuses on his own release.

He pounds into her until he's almost there and pulls out abruptly, pushing to sit up on his heels and take himself in hand. He doesn't want to leave her, but he also doesn't want to come between her legs. He said in so many words that he'd pull out beforehand, and this is just an extra precaution.

The new position gives him the most debauched view, too—Lydia, on her back, breasts rising and falling as she heaves in deep breaths, her chest still quaking, and her legs spread wide open for him.

Peter comes in a few quick strokes, his vision fading out for just a second as the first spurt shoots over his hand. He keeps stroking, the rest spilling over his knuckles, not quite as powerful as the initial pulse. Still, the wrecked noise that leaves his mouth, the tremble in his chest...he twists his fingers a little, his shoulders sinking down.

He's a mess, but he doesn't want to clean it up right now.

She can only manage a tiny whine when she feels Peter leave her, feeling empty and gaping.

Her eyes flutter open just in time to see Peter's own orgasm, a few drop fall on her and the sounds he makes do things to her.

Shuddering silence fills the room and shakily she pushes herself up. Her chest is still heaving but she crawls over to him; to give herself a few more seconds of recovery she presses the side of her face against his chest for a few seconds, breathing in the smell of sweat and Peter.

But only for a few seconds, she has a goal in mind after all.

She slides, well more like a slump but does it really matter?, down until she's resting her chin on his forearm. Leaning in a little further she darts her tongue out in a kittenish lick, catching a few salty drops.

"Mmm, not bad." She gives another lick.

Peter brings his free hand, the clean one, to rest against the back of her head when she leans into him. He doesn't try to move right away, the light-headed feeling still strong.

His gaze does, however, follow her when she slides down to his lap. A muscle jumps reflexively at the sight of her licking up his come, and a groan fills his throat.

"Maybe," he says, his voice a little hazy and his hand brushing through her hair, "you could clean me up."

Most of it got on his hand, anyway, and he's just going to wipe that on the bed.

A hum of agreement leaves her and she leans back in, her tongue making a clean stripe up his fingers. Lazily she brings over one of her own hands, using it to uncurl his fingers away from his cock. Now with unfettered access she takes her time getting into every nook and cranny.

When she finishes, his hand and cock spotless, she rolls over a little so she can actually look up at him. "Mmmm, that was a good appetizer," she gives him a cheeky smile. "But what about the main course?"

Her stomach growls, both emphasizing and ruining her question. Her smile turns a tad more genuine.

He doesn't expect her to go the whole nine yards, but at this point, Peter's starting to think he should expect the unexpected.

He closes his eyes, his own stomach growling at her question with the reminder that it's been a long while since either of them have had anything proper to eat. He hums and lets himself fall to the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and releases a slow breath.

"I need a minute," Peter says.

She pokes his hip, "you'd better not fall into a sex coma, I'm not dragging you around again." Biting back a smile at her own words she pushes herself upright and stretches.

Peter hums again. "There's nothing wrong with being worn out after sex," he tells her. "If you aren't worn out, you didn't do it right."

"You can be an old man and I'll go get our clothes," she slides off the bed and tries to stand, only to fall back onto the bed. "Oh my God." Christ, she's never going to hear the end of it from him is she? Despite that she gives a brief laugh.

He cuts his eyes at her to make a retort for calling him 'old,' but then starts laughing the second she falls back to bed when she attempts to stand. "You were saying, sweetheart?"

Trying again she actually manages to stay upright and wobbles her way to the bathroom to get her panties and his pants. "Shut up!" _Of course_ he's going to be insufferably smug, but does he actually have to express it.

She pulls her panties on in the bathroom, squirming at how sore she feels; even if she asked for every moment of it. When she comes back into the bedroom she tosses his pants at his head before crouching down to pick up her oversized dress.

Putting it back on makes her feel tiny again. Sitting back down on the edge of the bed she kicks her legs for a moment sending the fabric flying. "Come over here and put your claws to good use." She picks up the folds of dress and gives it a good shake for emphasis.

He tries to enjoy the bed for the short moment that she's in the bathroom, but the moment she's out, Lydia throws the old Eichen pants at his head. Peter makes a face, pulling them off, and pulls out the money he stuffed into the pocket. Glancing over at her, Peter ends up ignoring her request for the moment to push up from the bed and walk over to the dresser. He's still bare assed, but that's the point of the dresser. Maybe there are underclothes in it.

They may belong to somebody else, but Peter finds boxers and steps into them.

Turning back to her, he looks thoughtfully at her dress and crouches down to inspect it. It is too long. He holds up his hand, claws flicking out, and lifts his eyes to her. "What's the magic word?" he asks tauntingly, raising his brow. The least she can do is be a little nicer to him. Just a little.

Alright, she enjoys watching him walk to the dresser, but she's not going to admit it.

When he crouches before her, a sight she never wants to grow tired of, she smiles. Rolling her eyes a little though at his dramatics. Then again she doesn't expect any different from him.

She swings her legs again, careful not to kick him. "Hmmm the magic word..." She leans down and pecks his cheek. "I think it's 'kiss'."

His face softens suddenly at her kiss, a simple peck on the cheek but it stuns him into stillness. Peter blinks, realizing his stillness, and moves to occupy himself. He doesn't clear his throat to draw attention to it or make a grand gesture to cover it up, which would only make it more obvious. Taking the dress in hand, he holds it out as he makes a quick clean cut through the fabric across the top. "Lift your legs," he says, his voice softer than normal. He intends to make a clean cut across the bottom, too, but it won't work from this angle.

He looks younger like this, he looks like he should; all the weight and pain of the past seven years sloughing off him like so much dead weight.

It makes her sad because she knows it won't last.

She lifts her legs. "Knee length if possible. Please." She keeps her voice soft too, hoping that it will make this lightness between them last that much longer.

"Okay," he says simply, never taking his eyes off the dress and trimming it to her specifications. It doesn't take long, and then it's ready. When he's done, he pulls back to admire his handiwork and then scoops up the stray slips of fabric from the floor to throw them away in the trash bin inside the bathroom.

"Thank you." As he goes back into the bathroom she notices there's dried blood on his back and she feels some measure of pride; his body might have healed but there's still evidence that she marked him, even if only for a minute.

When he comes back out, Peter picks up the new pair of pants and slips them on and pulls the light blue collared shirt over his head. The pants, which are khaki, combined with the shirt make him look like he is ready to go golfing. Peter heaves out a deep-chested sigh, but he'll live. He snatches up the roll of money from the bed and pockets it when it hits him.

She grins at sigh, he looks like a suburbanite; it doesn't suit him at all.

"We don't have shoes."

Eichen House doesn't give its inmates shoes.

Her expression falls when he mentions lack of shoes. Still she's not going to be deterred.

Standing, the dress swishes around her knees, she walks up to him and takes his hand. "I think I know where to look," she gives him a tug and heads back downstairs.

Through the kitchen towards the back door where there is, like she'd hoped, a mudroom. And in a nice little row are old, battered wellies and flipflops. "And shoes," she nearly cracks a joke about being an expert on finding shoes, but it even rubs her the wrong way. Instead she just slips on a pair of flipflops, they're to big, but they're flipflops and no one will really care.

She takes his hand and tugs him back downstairs; he follows, of course, but what they find isn't really what he was counting on. As she takes the flip flops, Peter takes a larger pair of wellies. He slices them down with his claws like he did with her dress, slips a foot in, and judges that they'll fit him for the most part. Slipping them both on, Peter pulls the pants over them to hide them as best as possible.

He really wants to stop by his place for some clothes, but he left a few at the vault for those nights that he stayed over, inspecting the archives and spending more than an evening there. Frowning, he doubts there are boots.

"Let's go," Peter says, realizing how long they must have been at the cabin. It is still dark outside, but the sun should be due for rising at any moment. He heads for the door, pushing out into the night.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S A HOLIDAY MIRACLE! Getting another chapter out so fast. ~~Now can it be replicated?!~~
> 
> Though you can thank the fact that we got hated on, and then Britta and the rest of the awesome Pydiapack were all 'STFU haters, these two are awesome'. So thanks Pack-peeps.

By the time they get to Beacon Hills Lydia is starving, and sore from more than just sex. The sun had started to rise by the time they got to the outskirts, but she knew the only place likely to be open was the Cheri's. A soft snort of laughter leaves her, you don't go to Cheri's, you end up there.

Then again the fact Beacon Hills _had_ a Cheri's still spoke something to the state of the place; as did the fact she was actually contemplating eating there. But beyond the fact they had one she had no idea where it was. "Are we close?" She stumbles a little. "I think I could eat as much as you right now."

Peter looks over at her. He sees Lydia stumble and contemplates picking her up. She could do with a little help, after all, but he doesn't know how indignant she'll be if he does it. Peter looks back ahead. "I don't think it's much farther."

He isn't sore from sex, but his feet are aching in protest from the wellies that are a little small. He's losing these shoes first chance he gets.

Throwing caution to the wind, he scoops Lydia up and starts carrying her.

She just barely manages to suppress her shriek of surprise when Peter scoops her up, but once she orients herself she sighs in relief. "Thanks," she says leaning her head against his shoulder.

But soon even she can smell hot frying oil and coffee and her stomach rumbles again as they come into sight of the restaurant, that glorious 'open' sigh the best thing she's seen since they started walking.

She shimmies out of Peter's grasp, not really caring if she flashes him. And resists the urge to dash to the door, sticking close to Peter; just in case.

He tries to help her down to her feet, but Lydia's in a hurry, and her feet hit the pavement quickly. She stays close to him, though, and they walk in together. Peter holds open the door, standing close behind her.

They get a place to sit, and he loses the shoes. He makes an order quick, starving at this point, and when the waitress leaves to get their drinks, he finds himself trying to occupy his vision with anything but Lydia. The sex at the cabin was amazing, probably some of the best sex he's ever had, and while he normally would never feel awkward about it, there is still the lingering memory of her lips on his cheek and the playful language between them. Small ropes, but binding nonetheless.

Peter grabs a straw and tears the paper off, casting his eyes out the nearest window and surveying the grounds. "Don't you have a phone?" Peter asks, recalling the device she ran back for at Eichen. "We should call someone." He thinks about Derek, but then, he'd rather not be thrown back into Eichen again, and last time he and Derek saw each other, his nephew seemed more than happy about Peter's incarceration.

Lydia nearly salivates over the menu when they sit, picking about three different things to order and ignoring the waitress' raise eyebrow. Screw her, she did escape from a hell on earth mental hospital, have fantastic sex, then hike who knows how far to get back into town. Lydia deserves all the calories she can consume.

Peter's clearly paranoid, though she can hardly blame him, she still feels a little jumpy herself.

But she gladly pulls her phone out, hesitating with her contacts list though. If everyone really is dead who can she call? And at the crack of dawn too?

Mrs. McCall's at work, Jordan's asleep, her own mom's worried sick but wouldn't know anything, Mr. McCall would know some, but not the most important stuff, and who knew what Deaton would tell her if she called him. Which really left one option: the sheriff.

Thankfully she knows his office extension and doesn't have to deal with the front desk. "Hello?"

Just hearing him has her shaking a little with relief; here's a good person who won't hurt or drug her. "Sheriff, it's me, Lydia."

There's a second of silence and Lydia finds herself filling with dread.

"Oh God, you survived?"

Which has implications she doesn't exactly want to contemplate at the moment, without really thinking about it she reaches across the table and rests her hand on Peter's forearm. "Yes, but I don't remember anything. Eichen caught me, but we escaped." It slips out without meaning to.

Not that the sheriff seems to hear it, considering he's cursing up a storm. "I need you to come in Lydia, give what little statement you can and I can tell you what we know so far."

"In an hour, I haven't eaten since before everything happened, and it was a long walk back to Beacon Hills." She prays that he doesn't insist.

She hears him sigh over the phone. "Alright, one hour, and if you're not at the station by then I'm putting a BOLO out."

She hangs up in lieu of an actual response and arches an eyebrow at Peter, not even going to try and pretend that he didn't already hear all of that.

Peter arches an eyebrow back. "Not my first choice," he finally says to break the short moment of silence. "Considering last time we were in a room, he held a gun to my head." Peter almost hopes it doesn't remind Lydia of how she felt then either; she had looked at him with the same level of accusation in her eyes as the sheriff. All of them had. "And that doesn't give us a lot of time to eat and walk there. We'll have to call a cab."

"Out of everyone he'll know the most about what's going on," she points out.

Peter's words bring back the memory of being in that interrogation room, how she'd been desperate enough to call him, the horrified pity she'd felt when she realized Peter's madness had driven Meredith to do what she did, how she'd stopped the sheriff from shooting Peter.

She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the memory; Eichen changed Peter, maybe not for the better, but he's not quite the same as before. Then again resurrection changed him too.

She shrugs though at the slight accusation. "As far as I see it the less I've got to walk right now the better." Despite the few hours rest they got at the cabin she's tired again, feeling like she could curl up in a corner and sleep for a year.

Her mind changes a minute later when their food's set in front of them; and caring more about eating than manners she picks up her knife and fork and digs in.

Peter doesn't doubt that the sheriff will know the most, and while he isn't exactly thrilled about it, they need to find out what's going on. But when the food arrives, that's the only thing on his mind. He digs in as well to satisfy his hunger. Manners are hardly the top of his priorities right now.

When the waitress comes by to refill their drinks, Peter asks her for the phone number to a local cab company. She comes back with it, and when she leaves, Peter slips the paper across the table to Lydia. "It's your phone," he says, leaving it to her while he picks out enough money to pay for the bill and leave a tip.

By the time they finish Lydia feels stuffed, but in a good way.

She rolls her eyes at Peter, even if he's not looking at her. But picks up the slip of paper and dials, ordering the cab is easy enough; she's certainly done it enough time at parties with friends who were too drunk to drive.

"They'll be here in five minute," Peter probably already overheard that, but she just feels the need to say it. But as she says it it feels like a yawning gulf opens up inside her, all too soon she'll have a better idea of what happened; and she's not sure she wants that.

Refusing to give into it fully though she stands and does about a two step pace; beyond the sadness there's a restless energy in her, wanting her to do _something_ , despite the fact that she already is.

Stopping in front of Peter she stares at his shoulder, not really believing she's about to admit this to him, but...he might be the only person who really understands what she's going through right now, and so far he's been there for her. "I'm scared," it comes out barely a whisper.

Peter looks up at her while he's still sitting down, but her words set a sense of unease in him. He really doesn't like hearing _I'm scared_ coming from a banshee, and he rises from the seat, casting his eyes over the place, looking for anything out of place that might tip him off of something that could go wrong. His hand comes to rest on her shoulder in the process. Peter moves to stand closer to her, his hand giving her shoulder a slight squeeze.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, his gaze finally coming back to rest on her. It's not really his fault that he assumes the fear is something supernatural; she senses those things, after all.

Maybe some other day Lydia will be worried that Peter's touch anchors her, that it brings her back to some semblance of 'normal', but she's far too grateful right now to be worried.

She gives a helpless shrug at the question, reaching out to pluck off non-existent lint from his shirt. "Yes, no," something in her gut roils and she's just grateful it's not accompanied by the urge to vomit. "I don't know. I'm not going to scream," a source of infinite relief right now. "But..." She drifts off unsure of how to express what she's feeling.

A car horn shatters the moment. Lydia's not sure if she should be angered by that or not.

The horn draws his attention, and his hand falls away from her shoulder. He is relieved to hear Lydia isn't going to scream, and the tension falls away. Peter puts his hand at her elbow, a gentle urge without pulling her. "Let's go," he says.

He guides her to the door and into the cab, and they make it to the first street with department stores on it when Peter leans forward and says, "Can you stop here?"

They pull over in front of a plaza with mini-mart, a shoe store, and various other shops. Peter pays the guy to wait and hops out, gesturing at the shoe store. "Let's stop here first." He didn't even bring the wellies with him, socks only on his feet.

Lydia lets herself be guided, more focused on what her senses are trying to tell her. She knows it's important, that there's something coming that will change everything; but that's it. Even though she knows she should be getting more than that.

But Peter soon distracts her, intentional or not, with shoes. She wants to dash right in, to willingly distract herself with something so banal as shopping, but she sticks close to Peter as they walk in.

She casts a longing look at display of heels, but until they're safe she has to be practical. So instead she heads over to the sneakers. She hasn't work sneakers since she was in grade school.

A part of her wants to speak, but she's not sure what to say.

Once they're inside, Peter walks over immediately to the men's boots at the back and grabs his size. He tries them on to make sure they fit, leaving them on his feet when he goes to pay for them and tearing off the tag. He gets a funny look from the cashier behind the counter, but he doesn't care.

He glances over at Lydia, though, to see if she's picked anything out. He sees her with a pair of sneakers and raises his eyebrows, gesturing at the counter for her to bring them over so they can pay for them. The clothes, for now, he can bear, even if they aren't his style. "Once we leave here, I'm stopping in another place for a minute. Do you want to wait in the cab?"

She brings over the one pair of sneakers she thinks she can tolerate, and grabs a bag of socks too, since she doesn't have any. Despite her strange melancholy her lips twitch in a smile at how at odds his boots are with the rest of his clothes.

"Where?" She asks instead of answering his question; on the one hand she doesn't want to be far from him, because she feels marginally safer at his side, on the other she doesn't want to distract him or be in the way.

"The mini-mart." Peter gestures out the window at it. He glances down at the socks she grabbed and makes a last second stroll to grab a pack of men's socks as well, adding it to the order.

She thinks about that for a second then gives an actual smile. When he returns she rises up on her tip toes. "I'll wait in the taxi," she'll let him buy his condoms in peace; she could always use more hot sex in her life.

Grabbing her things she retreats to the taxi, pulling on her socks and new shoes after she sits.

She pulls out her phone again and stares at it; she should really call her mom, let her know she's alright but she finds she doesn't want to. That it's better if she doesn't.

They leave, and Peter crosses the sidewalk as Lydia heads to the cab. His destination is actually a travel size toothbrush and toothpaste because he may be a werewolf but basic hygiene is not above him. It seems like they're in for a long day, and he hasn't brushed his teeth.

As he leaves the health aisle, though, he pauses at the end. The sight of condoms has distracted him, and he thinks back on Lydia's comment in the shower. To be truthful, Peter doesn't know if that's going to happen again. As soon as they find her friends, and some part of him is certain they're still alive, Lydia will go back to her life and he will go back to his. In fact, he may have to skip town at this point. With all the enemies he has made, Peter won't be welcome in Beacon Hills anymore. He wants to help her first, though. He wants to make sure Lydia gets to wherever she is going safely.

Peter turns his head forward and starts walking again. On a second thought whim only, he turns around and grabs the smallest pack he can find, a six pack.

He pays for the items, brushes his teeth quickly in the bathroom, and stores the condoms in his pocket. When he makes it back to the cab, their time is almost up. "Sheriff's station," Peter announces once he's inside, sidled up next to Lydia again.

It's almost a relief when he comes back; and God, when did she become this needy? She feels like she might turn clingy at any second, and she kind of hates it. Still she doesn't stop herself from reaching out and setting her hand on his arm, like she needs to prove to herself that he's really there.

She keeps silent the whole ride to the station, unsure of what to say, or how she'd say it if she did know. Something in her tells her to wait, that soon she'll have time enough.

Finally, and all too soon, they arrive at the station and Lydia finds herself more nervous than she's been in a long while.

He glances down at her hand on his arm, and then raises his eyes to her face. Peter looks away, his jaw tensing nervously. He's acting like a teenager. He wants to reach out for her hand, but he holds back on the urge. A part of him thinks once she walks through that door, he isn't going to see her again. He has felt a little more grounded to reality, a little more normal, since she showed up in Eichen. Peter wonders, though, how long that will last.

They made a violent escape together, hearts pounding as they ran for cover in the forest, and they took shelter in a cabin like they were hiding away from the world. They were lovers, however briefly. Here, in the taxi, Peter wants to go back to the cabin. It was the first time in a long time that he has felt wanted. Needed, in a way that wasn't for a favor.

They're going to reach the station, and she isn't going to need him anymore.

It comes into view with all the finality that he would expect, a deep breath entering his lungs as the cab comes to a halt.

"Here's our stop," Peter says, trying to be light. He pays the driver and steps out, holding the door open for Lydia.

She stops at the front doors, peering through the glass and noticing the station is empty, or at least appears to. Re-focusing her gaze she stares at Peter's reflection in the glass. "Do you really want to do this?" So far he and the station haven't had the best record.

 _He's_ not the one who needs to be here, she is. She's the one who needs to find out what happened in those hours she doesn't remember. Needs to find out if the gaping darkness in her is for the reason she hopes it isn't.

But there's a vaguely traitorous part of her that's telling her to _run_ , to grab Peter's hand, jump back into the cab and tell the drive to take them to San Francisco, or Portland, or somewhere on the east coast; just so long as it's _away_. With only a little bit of regret she pushes it over into the darkness.

Peter pauses when she pauses, and he gives her a look when she asks him if he wants to do this.

He nods his head at the station's doors. "Do you really trust everyone in there?" Peter asks right back, narrowing his eyes just slightly. The station may look dead, but that doesn't mean anything. "We escaped out of Eichen House. Someone may want to put us back in."

It's his excuse for not wanting to leave her side. What if something does happen to her, and he waits out here and doesn't know?

She wonders if Peter meant to send her back into terror again with that idea. Because she's there again now. But this time with it comes visceral anger. No. Never again. She'll scream if she has to, so long and hard that everyone around her will be rolling around from the pain of ruptured eardrums, but she's never going back.

"I trust the sheriff to tell me what happened," beyond that, she doesn't know. She _should_ trust Stiles' dad, she trusted Stiles enough, but that looming sense of crossroads is even bigger than before.

Before she can doubt herself or change her mind she pushes open the doors and walks in.

Peter follows behind her, but when he sees the sheriff through the glass, pacing anxiously, Peter pulls back into the shadows and stays in the little crook by the doors filled with chairs. There is an office shielding him from view. He touches Lydia's arm to get her to stop.

"I'll wait here," he says, not liking the look of the sheriff. Besides, the last time they saw each other, there was a gun involved and it was aimed at Peter's head. He'd rather avoid that happening again.

"Okay," she murmurs; she takes advantage of the pause to breath deep, to brace herself against what may come.

As purposefully as she can she strides through the bullpen towards the sheriff. "Sheriff?" She calls out, catching his attention.

He turns and there's so much sadness in his expression that she has to fight not to cry. "Oh Lydia." She finds herself being hugged and isn't sure what to do about it. "Thank God you survived. Your mom's been worried sick ever since they never found you at the scene."

She breaks away from his hug, not being able to stand it; for some reason it scratches at her like wool against bare skin. "Sheriff," she sits—she's sure she needs to be sitting for this—"what happened?"

The older man slumps and leans heavily against the nearest desk. "There was an...explosion, big enough that we heard it all the way out here." A bitter laugh escapes the sheriff. "You know for a time I thought the whole Nogitsune thing would be the worst experience of my life." He's crying now, but she doesn't mention it.

Instead she bites her tongue hard to keep from asking him to get to the point, Lydia leans back in her chair; as if she can escape this.

"But this was so much worse, the fire department wouldn't let us near for the longest time. Worried about any potential wildfires that might start." He gives an angry hiss. "Ruined the crime scene." One of his hands run through his hair. "Malia and Theo got rushed to the hospital, but Theo vanished and Malia," his frown deepens. "Melissa says the prognosis isn't good.

"Even after...even after they'd taken Malia and Theo to the hospital there were, were so many bodies." He looks her in the eye and his pain echoes in her. "We can't even identify them, the explosion destroyed them."

After everything she's just heard it's _this_ that destroys her.

She's so _cold_ , she wraps her arms around herself. There are tears of her own streaming down her face now.

It takes the part of her mind that can still think a few moments to realize that pitiful keening sound is coming from her.

Despite being out of sight, Peter hears every word. He stills to listen to it all, his own mind zoning out as he thinks about all of the people that could include. It doesn't take long for him to snap out of it, hearing the noises coming out of Lydia.

The urge to go to her is strong. Peter tells himself not to, and very nearly fights it off, but he doesn't hear the sheriff going to her either. The sound just keeps coming from her—like she's about to cry, only she's stuck on that awful loop that comes right before the reality sinks in and lets the tears fall.

The urge pushes him, and he comes stalking quickly around the corner to reach her.

The intention is cut short as he walks into the scene without paying attention to the sheriff, focusing on getting to Lydia; until a loud bang, followed by a deafening silence, sends him flying to the floor. His back hits, the air going out of his lungs, and an inward wheeze only brings a striking pain with it. It's his shoulder, the pain's in his shoulder. A bullet. It went in, but it didn't come out.

Her keen turns into a scream and reality snaps back into her.

Peter. On the ground. Shot.

But oh, thank whatever god is listening, not dead. She couldn't handle any more death right now.

_Choose._

She finds herself shaken to the core and she unsteadily stands. "What did you do?" It's a harsh whisper; about all she can manage right now, her throat hadn't really recovered that much from yesterday.

The sheriff still has his gun out, pointed at Peter, and he approaches the other man slowly. But Lydia's there first; standing above Peter. "What did you do?"

"What I should have done the last time I saw Hale Lydia, stand aside." He takes a step closer. "How do we know he's not behind everything?"

"No," she doesn't deign to answer his last question; she remembers what Peter was like yesterday, he was far too drugged up to pull off any sort of scheme.

"Lydia..."

She meets the sheriff's gaze. "I will scream if I have to sheriff, but you're not going to hurt Peter anymore."

With an incredible amount of effort, Peter pushes himself up, scooting up to the nearest desk to stay upright. He glances over at his shoulder. It's just a normal bullet, but he can't heal until it's out. The wound bleeds fresh.

He cuts his eyes up at Lydia, standing before him. The sheriff won't hurt Lydia, so Peter doesn't exactly feel bad about scooting a little more until he's behind her fully.

"I was locked up in Eichen House," Peter manages to say, even if it's a dumb idea. "Drugged up, tortured, questioned every day..." An edge of bitterness creeps into his tone. "When did I get the time to do all _this_?"

"Don't waste your strength Peter." She keeps her gaze on the sheriff though, who's looking at her like she's gained a second head.

"Lydia..."

"No," she doesn't care what the sheriff has to say to her right now, maybe not ever again. Peter saved her, and this is how other people are going to repay him? "I'm going to help Peter up sheriff, and we're going to leave." It'd be too much to hope that their taxi's still there, but the school isn't that far and the vault should be safe, despite what Peter suggested yesterday.

"If you hurt him again, or try to follow us I won't hesitate." Stiles, who's dead, dead, dead, would probably have killed her for that; but there's only the three of them.

She doesn't relax when she sees the Sheriff take his finger off the trigger and flick on the safety; they're technically empty gestures from him.

Still she crouches down and slings Peter's uninjured arm around her shoulder. It's going to be a comical sight, her helping a man seven inches taller than her; but it's not going to stop her.

With her help, Peter is able to stand, but he keeps a wary eye on the sheriff. As usual, the blame falls on him. He can only be glad that Lydia actually chose to defend him.

His legs aren't useless, but he is more wounded than normal due to the bullet being lodged in. When they are outside, he tells her, "I have to get the bullet out for it to heal." He doesn't want to suggest it, but the vet clinic is the best place. "The clinic," he adds raggedly.

Peter's heavy, but takes most of his own weight, thank God. And really she shouldn't be thinking about anything remotely related to sex at the moment, but she finds herself wondering what it would feel like to have all that weight pressing down on her.

She shakes her head to try and dispel the thought and frowns at Peter. "Will he actually help? I thought he liked you about as well as everyone else." Granted she's not sure she could take out the bullet herself.

"I don't know," Peter says, "but I don't have extraction tools at the vault." He furrows his brow, wincing in pain. "There might be something at my apartment we could use, if you don't have a light stomach..."

Should she be worried about him bleeding out before they come to a decision of some sort? "Okay," there's the risk of course that someone's waiting for them, but they'll have to take it.

"And please, you're forgetting the fact we had a video chat over one of Kate's victims, pretty sure that's not going to be worse than this." Anything to keep her mind distracted at this point.

He grins. "Well, then. My apartment it is." And it looks like they're walking. Good thing he lives downtown and the sheriff's department is downtown.

However, he gets weaker towards the end of the walk, and when they reach the door, it's locked and he doesn't have a key. "I could try busting it down," Peter suggests, sounding light-headed.

The walk isn't fun, but it's short. And then they're staring at the door together, Lydia wishing she still had her lockpicking kit. "If all we're doing here is taking out the bullet then be my guest, it's your deposit." Then again it's not like she can think of another way in.

Peter sighs and leaves the support of her shoulder to right himself. He tries to concentrate his strength before ramming his good shoulder into the door. The first hit doesn't do it. It takes two more, and then the door flies open, and Peter goes with it, hitting the ground.

He sees stars, actual flashes of little light as his vision fades around the corners, and curls up into a ball. Peter isn't sure what karma has brought this particular thing down on him, but the pain he feels from ramming the door with the condition his shoulder is in is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

She finds herself looking around, hoping no one hears them.

"Shit, shit." She mutters to herself as Peter hits the ground. Body shaking slightly from adrenaline and stress she steps over him and as gently as she can drags him into the apartment. Then quickly goes back and shuts the door as best she can, wishing there was something she could drag in front of it to buy them a few seconds extra time.

"Peter? Are you alright?" She at least hopes he'll be conscious enough to tell her where she can find what they need, otherwise who knows how long it will take.

"Me and Derek," he wheezes, "had a kit. For arrows, mostly. Kitchen. Far left. Top shelf."

Peter tries to staunch the blood with his hand and grits his teeth. She going to have to do it. There is no way he can. Well, he could try, but he'll bleed out more.

She goes quickly. Grumbling all the while that they decided to put it somewhere crazy like the top shelf, and not, say, under the sink where it's easily reached. Spotting the box she drags over a far-too wobbly bar stool and climbs up it, hoping she doesn't fall.

Luck's with her and she sets the box on the counter before scrambling down. Opening the box she takes a quick inventory: forceps, bandages, flashlight, cotton swabs, scissors, rubbing alcohol, gloves; she closes the box, after a few seconds thought she also looks around for a few bowls, and brings it and the bowls over to Peter still on the floor. Which in this case it probably a good thing.

Kneeling down next to his shoulder she reopens the box again and pulls on a pair of rubber gloves. "Make a single nurse comment and I'll smack you." Sure she's roleplayed that once or twice in the bedroom, but she doesn't really feel in the mood for it here. There's a small part of her pointing out that when this is all over her emotional crash is going to be the worst thing ever; but doesn't let herself think about it long.

Pulling out the scissors she cuts away at the shirt. "Good thing this looked like shit on you."

"Nurses aren't really my thing," Peter offers, trying to be light. He won't miss the shirt. She's welcome to shred it. "Just be quick about it."

Once that bullet is out, he'll be as good as new.

"I'd think you'd prefer me to be thorough and not speedy." she snaps back. She's certain the bullet didn't break up on impact but it'd still be better to make sure she's got everything.

She pours some of the rubbing alcohol into one of the bowls and puts the forceps into at least sterilize them a little. Then dips in some cotton swabs and gets to work cleaning in and around the wound, tossing used ones into yet another bowl.

He bites down. This pain is minimal. "I could use a nap already," he says, distracting himself with conversation, and then, with some finality, "And no more people."

First, they were chased down. Now, he's been shot. Their next encounter isn't looking too bright.

She finds herself snorting in amusement as she tosses away the last cotton swab. "Misanthropic old man," she manages to tease. "now hush or I might tear something."

Focusing completely on getting the bullet out is the only way she can be sure she actually does it, distractions will only, well...distract her.

Grabbing the flashlight, and grateful that it's one of those small pin ones, she turns it on and setting it between her teeth points it at the wound; it's still bleeding, but sluggishly now. Picking up the forceps she dries them on a sterile gauze pad and making a face starts lowering them into the hole, relatively sure that when she reaches the bottom she'll find the bullet

Peter grits his teeth. He will not scream. He will not.

It's fitting that she should be the one to do this, considering their past. Only Peter is more grateful than fearful, but there is a little fear because he is sure Lydia is not exactly experienced extracting bullets from bodies.

Her light wobbles, and she sets her teeth to steady it; the tension in her jaw not really helping with the tension everywhere else though. She wishes desperately that she had one of those tiny cameras on bendable sticks, or whatever they were, that doctors had. Because right now she's basically going off touch.

Also she kind of want to apologize for this, but she can't exactly find it in her to actually do so.

Finally the forceps meet resistance, and she leans in closer to the wound, hoping for something to actually aim for instead of possibly tearing up his shoulder to find the bullet. A dull glitter to the left catches her eye and she inches the forceps towards it, making a little sound of triumph when they hit something more resisting than muscle.

Pulling them up a little she opens them and slowly fits them around the bullet. Once she has it she starts pulling it out at a moderate pace, she wants it out as much as he does, but too fast and she might have to go bullet hunting all over again.

The moment the forceps clear the edges of the wound she's dunking them, bullet still caught, in the rubbing alcohol. Yanking them out the moment the blood's gone. Raising it up to her face she looks at the bullet to make sure it's whole and there aren't any shards to worry about.

She opens her mouth letting the flashlight clatter to the ground as she tosses the forceps and bullet back into the bowl. "I got it all." Oh God. Her whole body begins to tremble.

Lydia is slow, so he doesn't ever scream. The pain is sharp, but slower is bearable, though his vision blacks out once he feels nausea creep into his stomach. Likely, it's from the bloss loss, the remnant drugs still in his system, and aside from what he ate earlier, lack of actual food. He's sure stuffing his face quickly only makes that worse, too.

When Lydia gets the bullet out, Peter actually gasps from relief. The wound begins to heal as he lays there, allowing himself time before moving. His head clears, and he pushes himself up on his forearms.

"That was good," Peter jests, "for a beginner." He exhales a heavy breath. "Steady hands make a difference."

Just as he says that, though, he notices her trembling.

"Lydia?"

She can't even laugh at his poor taste; if it even was a joke.

All she has in her is an consuming darkness.

Managing, somehow, to stand on shaky legs she walks backwards; physically trying to escape her own mind. Her knees hit something though—a chair most likely the part of her that can still think suggests—and she falls into it. She curls up into it, arms wrapping around her legs.

Another keen escapes her and she at least has the sense of mind to bury her face in her knees to try and muffle it.

He sees her back up--fears, momentarily, that it's his fault—until the conversation at the sheriff's station comes back to him. Peter moves forward, only to feel the flap of his torn shirt tickle him. He glances down, ripping it off, and uses it to clean up the blood before tossing it aside.

He crawls to her, at eye level since she's sitting down, and reaches out to place a tentative hand on her knee.

"Hey," Peter coaxes. He isn't skilled in the matters of comfort, and he doesn't want to alarm her, so he doesn't try to do more until she responds somehow. "Lydia." His thumb brushes the inside of her knee soothingly.

Warmth touches her, banishing just a little of the darkness, and her keen subsides into sobs.

But still sorrow consumes her, giving her no room for anything else. A part of her that might be a hand reaches out, grabbing that bit of warmth.

She needs it. Knows that it will hold her and guide her back to the world when her mourning ceases, knows that it will keep her safe while she sorrows.

She reaches out for him, sobs consuming her, and he reacts instinctively. His arms open, and he leans forward, pulling her to him with a wrap of his arms. His hand cradles her head, the other pressing into her back. He never thought this would be happening. Had never imagined it, has trouble wrapping his head around it now, but that doesn't stop it. It doesn't make the moment unravel into an illusion.

"Shhh," he says, as softly as possible, the hand on her back rubbing up and down. Peter doesn't bother with saying it's okay. It's not, and he knows it's not. Not for her, not anymore. His hand brushes through her hair, trying to calm her.

The warmth is all around her now, perfect and comforting. Pulling her enough to it that she can feel herself crying, though even that sensation feels far away.

Something akin to music reaches her from the same place the warmth does, tugging her back just a little more. There's a hand, rubbing against her back, warm flesh against her cheek.

Her sobs die down, though she's still crying.

She might still be in her sorrow-full darkness; but it's clear she's not alone.

"Scott Andrew McCall. Kira Toshiko Yukimura. Zdzisław Charles Stilinski. Liam Jacob Dunbar. Mason Stephen Hewett. Malia Marie Hale." She recites each name like a prayer, trance-like. Her eyes now open but unseeing.

The names send a chill down his spine. There's a faraway voice saying *this is everything you wanted*. Maybe, when he was in a fire-induced coma, ranting and raving from madness. That madness isn't completely gone, but all these deaths...he didn't want that.

His hand stills in her hair and against her back. If everyone is dead, Peter doesn't know who's supposed to fight this. It isn't his war. He'd rather leave and let this town consume itself. He can't fight an army. Not alone. Not like this one. After what they were able to do to him in Eichen, he's kidding himself if he thinks he even has a fighting chance.

Lydia blinks, returning to herself enough to actually be aware of her surroundings. She's in Peter's lap, and feels warm and far more safe than she has any right to. The yawning pit of sadness is still inside her, but it's not all consuming anymore.

Deciding not to ask why he's missing his shirt, Lydia twists a little so she can wrap her arms around him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He pauses, not sure if he should ask the next thing on his mind. "Do you want me to take you somewhere?"

They haven't been awake that long, but Peter can't help but think Lydia needs her rest. The rest they got at the cabin was hardly sufficient.

Maybe she wants to go home.

Even though she's still crying she also feels exhausted. "Bed," she rasps, more than willing to curl up against him and sleep for a whole week.

"Not here," Peter says, and he helps her back into the chair, combing her hair away from her face and holding the sides so they are looking one another in the eyes. "It's too dangerous here. They might come looking for me. We have to leave. I have a spare vehicle in the parking garage and keys somewhere around here. Let me pack a few things, and we'll go. Okay?"

Peter looks at her, waiting for a nod of confirmation that says she understands.

His hands focus her a bit more. "Okay," she hates how tiny and childlike she sounds. But in a way it's how she feels. Heedlessly uncaring of safety so long as the bed is soft and Peter's there with her.

The moment he leaves though her eyelids are fluttering shut, unable to resist the siren song of sleep.

Peter gets up quickly and goes to his bedroom. He grabs the empty duffle bags in his closet for travel and begins packing his clothes, pulling on a fresh shirt that is actually his and feeling a little more like himself in the process. He fills the second bag with his boots and more clothes because once he leaves here, he is never coming back. The final bag is for books and paperwork, lighter than the rest, and he comes back out into the kitchen to dry off the tools Lydia used on him, packing those as well. They're useful, after all.

He finds her nearly asleep in the chair and goes to unblock the door before snatching the hidden set of keys from the kitchen drawer. Scooping Lydia up in his arms, Peter wastes no time getting down to the parking garage. He hits the button to unlock all the doors, manages somehow to bend and reach out for the handle from under Lydia, and sets her in the passenger seat. Tossing his bags in the backseat, he comes back around to buckle her in and shut the door, circles the vehicle to climb into the driver side, and checks the gas once he cranks the engine.

There isn't a bed at the Hale vault, so Peter pulls out of the parking garage with the intent of hitting a hotel on the edge of town. Somewhere where nobody will recognize them.

Lydia gets shaken into half-awakeness when Peter scoops her up, but she's too worn out to do much besides rest her head on his shoulder, swaying with him as he walks.

The purr of the car starts lulling her back to sleep, but not before she reaches an arm out, her hand coming to rest on Peter's thigh.

The drive is peaceful. Uneventful. Peter feels a touch on his thigh and glances down momentarily to see Lydia's hand there. He chances a look at her to see her eyes closed, her head resting sideways against the reclined seat. Looking ahead again to focus on the road, he places a hand on top of hers. His thumb makes smooth strokes over her knuckles as the city fades out into emptier roads and sparsely placed gas stations.

Eventually, they reach a decent hotel that's not a rundown shack with flickering lights in the middle of nowhere. Peter pulls the vehicle over, grabbing one duffle bag of clothes from the backseat and slinging it over his shoulder, and comes around to unbuckle Lydia and scoop her up again. He walks inside to the front desk, the lady greeting them with a smile.

"Hi, I'd a room for today."

"One bed?" she asks.

Peter pauses. Thankfully, only for a second, the woman not noticing it. "Yeah, one bed. Queen is fine."

"Name?"

Peter gives her a fake name and pays in cash. As he pays for it, the lady looks at Lydia with a grin and passes him two key cards.

"The wife looks sleepy," she tells him, nodding at Lydia.

Peter smiles back. Lydia's face is lying cradled against his chest, hiding her age. Obviously, she's much younger looking than him. "It was a long drive," he says, and the woman laughs.

"Well, I hope you two have a good rest here."

"Thank you," Peter says amiably, stepping away from the front desk. Key cards in hand, he goes back outside and searches for the room. Second story, close to the front, with a view of the car.

The first thing Peter does is turn on a light before kicking the door shut. He lays Lydia on the bed, drops the duffle bag, and immediately locks the door. He doesn't know why he feels so paranoid. Nothing in this town is ever safe, but that's never set him on edge this much before. He goes back over to Lydia, sitting down beside her on the edge of the bed.

Gently, he touches her face and turns her to him. "Lydia," he says, keeping his voice low. "Do you want to change into something more comfortable before you fall asleep? I have clothes." His clothes. Peter is sure he's got a long enough shirt in there somewhere she can slip into. He looks down at her feet. "And you need to take your sneakers off, anyway." He gives her a pointed look, even if she doesn't see it.

"Mmmmm?" Her eyelids flutter open and she has a brief moment of panic from staring at the ceiling; but she turns her head and sees Peter, not relaxed but clearly not under pressure of  any sort. Her panic dies away. "Hi," she fights back a blush, although she has no idea why she'd be blushing.

Peter feels himself smiling just slightly at Lydia's random greeting, eyes hooded as he tilts his head while looking down at her.

Looking around she sees a decent enough motel room, and that they're currently both on the bed. At that though her sleepiness returns, but she still forces herself to sit upright. Swinging her legs off the bed sue kicks off her sneakers and socks.

She stares at the slightly ragged hem of her dress for a few moments. "We need to get more clothes for me," she murmurs more to herself, though she's sure Peter hears her. But eager to be out of it she shifts onto her knees and pulls the dress up over her head.

He hears her, knowing they can stop by her house later. He still needs to go to the vault, too. Lydia had wanted to sleep, though, and a hotel was the only thing he could think of to take her to that was safe. "We can," Peter adds. "Later."

A nod, then not really caring how Peter might react she climbs up and slides under the sheets; they're not the soft cotton she's used to but they're alright. Now she rolls over a little to look at Peter. She arches an eyebrow but she also yawns at the same time, ruining the effect. "Well?"

He isn't really fazed by her choice to strip down. What's comfortable is what's comfortable, and he's more concerned about her wellbeing after earlier than anything else.

Her question breaks him from a short reverie of worry. "Well what?"

Peter gets a soft look on his face, one Lydia's not sure if she likes or not. Still she rolls her eyes at his obtuseness. "Well are you coming to bed or not?"

She could really use a cuddle, at the very least; sex is about the farthest thing from her mind right now.

"I'm fine," Peter tells her, getting up from the bed. "You get some sleep."

Inwardly, there's a part of him starting to panic. He came all the way out here to do this for Lydia. Why didn't he just carry her home? What the hell is he even doing? She has a mother he can take her to, doesn't she?

Peter looks at the window. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing.

Wearily she sits upright, not bothering to cover herself—Peter's seen everything already, and fighting back sleep. "Peter," she hopes he can read the frustration in her voice, or at least her scent. "I pulled a bullet from your shoulder less than an hour ago. If you're not as tired as me then I must be the pinnacle of happy." Either he's trying to pull some macho bullshit, or he's afraid of something. Right now she won't stand the former, and she hopes they can work through the latter, but later.

She flops back onto the bed, rolling so her back's to him. "Come to bed Peter."

Maybe she's not the only one who needs comforted.

He does sense her frustration, but this time he doesn't budge like he did at the cabin. His voice is calm and level. "You did," Peter agrees simply, "but I heal quickly."

It's the truth, and he doesn't get any closer to the bed.

Something in her throws in the towel, and if she were standing she'd be throwing her hands up. As it is she grabs the edge of the blankets and yanks them up over her head. "Fine," she doesn't care if she sounds petulant. Peter's clearly being an idiot and she's far too exhausted and depressed to deal with it.

She closes her eyes, but sleep doesn't come for a long time.

Peter stays by the window, taking a seat in one of the chairs and watching the outside of the hotel. Initially, he had every intention of lying down with her. It might have been the eyeroll she gave him that changed his mind and made him pull back. He isn't sure. He wishes he had his laptop still. It'd give him something to do. He couldn't find it in the apartment. Derek must have trashed it or taken it.

At some point, the boredom sets in, and his eyelids start to flutter. Peter tries to get comfortable in the chair, but the bed is sounding more and more appealing by the moment.

_Lydia runs through the woods, blood dripping from her bare feet as she travels over knife-sharp dirt. There are voices chasing her and panic flutters through her at the thought of what they might do if they catch her._

_"Lydia..." Scott's voice calls from behind her._

_She can't cry out._

_Stiles joins in, then Kira, and all the rest. Fingers like cobwebs cling to her face, she tries to bat them away but they only cling to her arms too._

_Her tears dispel them, but not for long._

_"Why?" "Why?" "Why?" "Why?" "Why?" "Why?"_

_She can't breath._

In the middle of his eyelids fluttering, Peter hears a noise from the bed. He opens his eyes and looks over at it. Lydia isn't thrashing, but she moves in her sleep and she sounds scared of whatever nightmare has gripped a hold over her mind. He gets up from the chair and walks over to her, sitting down on the bed and getting closer to her until he can put a hand on her arm.

"Lydia," he calls out, giving her a gentle shake. "Lydia, you're dreaming. Wake up."

_she's in eichen strapped down to a bed, her body paralyzed and head turned towards the other side of the room where doctors approach peter with knives and..._

She awakes thrashing, "No, Peter!"

Her eyes dart around, and when they land on Peter her shoulders slump in relief. He's safe. Closing her eyes she works on calming her ragged breathing. Not really caring that she's crying again.

Eventually though she can't hold her relief in anymore and she throws herself at Peter, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face behind his hear. "You're alright."

Peter feels himself pull back, arms going out, as she wraps her arms around his neck. The way she woke up startled him, and the words in his ear only confuse him further. Slowly, he lets his arms come around her until his hands are on her back.

"I'm fine," he finally says, feeling his hand run up her back. "You were having a nightmare."

A shuddering breath leaves her, reality coming back to her in full force. "The pack was chasing me...then I was at Eichen and I was paralyzed and I couldn't do anything while the doctors came at you." She shivers, now that she's conscious she finds herself wondering if that was a memory of sorts, and not just a nightmare. There are still things about her own powers she still doesn't know yet after all.

"It was just a dream," Peter repeated. He feels a little bad that he left her alone in the bed now. "You couldn't have been out for more than an hour or two." Peter glances at the clock. An hour and a half. "Do you want to lie back down?"

He shifts, as if intending to lie down with her this time to show her she doesn't have to be afraid. A laughable concept, if he isn't completely serious about it.

"Yes," she answers, making herself focus on him and his words instead of the nightmare. An hour and a half might be a full sleep cycle, but it's certainly not enough in the way of actual rest.

As for him, she can feel the slightly elevated thump of his heart against her cheek and she feels grateful that he's moving with her. Still she's a little afraid it's a lie. "Stay with me, please."

He moves further, angling them to lie down as he brings a leg onto the bed. Peter realizes belatedly the items still in his pocket, and tucks a hand in to take them out and put them on the nightstand. A small toothbrush, mini toothpaste tube, and a box of condoms. Thankfully, he places them on the nightstand behind himself, his body hopefully blocking the view. He isn't too concerned about her seeing them. Besides, trying harder to hide them might only draw her attention more.

Once they're out of the way, Peter moves under the sheets and lies down with her, returning his arm from the nightstand to lay it across her body.

Peter moves to take stuff from his pocket, but Lydia hardly cares at this point, right now she's already half-asleep again and her nightmares feel further away with a warm body next to hers. She pulls away from Peter slightly, so she can look him in the eye. "And don't get up and leave later, I still want you here when I wake up." Her seriousness is ruined by a yawn, but she got her point across she hopes.

"I think I can manage that," he says a little cheekily, trying to keep things light. But even though Lydia looks half asleep again, Peter forces himself to ask another question. "Is there anywhere you'd like me to take you after this? Mother? Father? A boyfriend?"

He isn't going to kid himself on the last one. Despite what happened between them at the cabin, it's a very real possibility. Lydia is young and beautiful. If one of the three weren't there for the explosion, she'll still have ties to this town.

She manages a sleepy laugh, though it takes a lot out of her.

A grimace crosses her face at his question though. "No boyfriend," She's had a short string of one night stands but she doesn't like any of them enough to return to them. "Dad doesn't care," she mutters into Peter's shoulder.

As for her mom...the woman seemed willfully ignorant of what had and currently was happening to Lydia; content to live in her own world where Lydia was still a perfect little girl. It's not a pleasant thing to realize about your mom but it's true.

Her mom thought putting her in sessions with the _school_ therapist would be enough the last time Lydia was having nightmares, she'd had to see what her mom thought Lydia should do this time. "Talk about it later," she murmurs. "Sleep now."

Peter nods his head slightly against the pillow instead of answering her out loud. On the bed he is able to close his eyes more easily than in the chair, before he knows it, he's out and the world turns black.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really sorry this chapter took so long to post! Life's been pretty busy for me and as far as projects go this one is a bit low on the totem pole (which you think it wouldn't be since this is far easier than anything else I'm doing RN).
> 
> From now on updates should be every Sunday until I've caught up from where Helholden and I left off, after that I'm not sure what's going to happen.

Lydia awakes slowly, and to the sound of rain; which she feels fits her current outlook perfectly.

Something warm moves beneath her and opening her eyes she's met with the wide expanse of Peter's chest. As gently as she can, she doesn't want to wake him too, she pushes herself upright enough to see that she's basically sprawled all over him; his shoulder having somehow made an excellent pillow.

Turning her head she looks at the clock. 8:39 AM. She frowns a little, either she slept less than she thought she had—highly unlikely—or they both slept for an entire day. Which would help to explain why she feels at least a little better than she did before.

Also on the nightstand she notices a small box of condoms, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. At the moment she couldn't care less about the condoms—except to feel a faint spark of amusement—she's in no mood for sex at the moment and she'd like to think neither is Peter. The toothpaste and brush however...

Hoping she doesn't wake Peter in the process she gets up and grabbing both pads into the bathroom, only turning on the light after she closes the door.

Being a light sleeper, he feels Lydia move and wakes up, but he's not exactly ready to be awake. The bed shifts, and not long after that, Peter hears the bathroom door close. He rolls onto his stomach, shoving his face down in the pillow. Just a little longer. It's comfortable, and he's in no rush.

Her teeth now minty fresh and feeling more awake she exits the bathroom to find Peter's rolled over.

Unsure if he's actually awake or not she still climbs back into bed, pressing herself back against his side, using his back as a pillow; he's nice and warm and on a day like this, and not just because of the weather, she's more than happy to just laze about in bed—though there'll need to be food at some point she's sure. "Morning," she says quietly.

He feels her crawl in bed beside him again and drape over his back and turns his head to look at her. "Good morning," he repeats, wondering when the hell he last said that particular phrase. He closes his eyes again, though. "What time is it?"

"8:40 in the morning," she answers. She finds she's half tempted to get back up and turn on the coffee percolator—granted it's probably shit coffee—just to add to the atmosphere. But she stays where she is, lethargy and depression wanting her to do nothing more than lie around and let the day pass.

Peter hums noncommittally, accepting the time, even though it means they've been asleep for well over twelve hours. That explains the ache in his back.

He rolls onto his back underneath her arm, pulling Lydia halfway on top of his chest in the process. His fingers stroke a lazy pattern across her back. "How are you feeling?"

The question surprises her a little, though not as much as the touch. "Sad mostly, maybe a little hungry."

She drags her own hand up Peter's side, just taking comfort in the fact that she can touch him, that he's  _ real,  _ and that he's been here for her.

Peter nods slightly, and then his hand stills. "Does anything tell you if Derek was in town when the explosion happened?"

He's afraid to ask, but he also needs to know.

She doesn't even need to feel to know the answer to that and shakes her head. "He left a few days ago, says there was a book he needed to go get." Lydia probably should have paid more attention when Derek was telling them about it, but at the time she'd been worried about other things.

Peter's hand resumes on her back, and he nods again, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't want to say 'good,' how callous would that sound, so he says nothing.

Instead, he noses into her hair and remains quiet.

She gives a little sigh, accompanied by her stomach growling. Her sigh becomes more gusty. "I don't want to leave the bed," she only half-complains. But it's the truth.

Peter snorts at that. "You're free to do whatever you want to do."

More than food, Peter thinks about visiting the Hale vault. There are some things he'd like to pick up before he makes his eventual skip out of town.

Despite herself she finds herself rolling her eyes and pushing herself up a little, poking Peter as she does so. "Oooo, feeling more like yourself today I see."

She's kind of glad though, she'd rather not see Peter drugged and weak like that again; it's just not right.

He manages an amused smirk at that. "Maybe," he says. He tilts his head on the pillow toward her. "I'm not going to tell you what to do." He's hardly that type.

But he also doesn't quite say 'whatever you want to do,' even though it lingers there unsaid.

She finds her expression growing wistful, she wishes she could be the same. After scooting up a little she lowers her head again, in a position now where her cheek presses up against his.

"What I want to do is have breakfast in bed," her fingers start tapping out the rhythm of the rain on his shoulder. "With a big pot of tea and a partner who can distract me." She does want to wallow but she also wants to forget, even for a few seconds.

Breakfast in bed. Well, it's a hotel. They might have breakfast, but he's sure they don't serve it to you in bed. Peter makes a show of a deep sigh. "And I suppose you want me to get it for you?"

He is only half kidding, but this is new for him, too. On one hand, he doesn't want to appear too accommodating, but he also doesn't want to be an asshole. It's a tougher decision than it should be, but then he reaches a hand up into her hair and leans his nose into it, too, and thinks about how much gentler she has been with him.

Lydia nearly pulls away, not because he's nosing at her hair, no, she nearly pulls away so she can flutter her eyelashes at him in an outrageous manner. What she does instead is probably a lot more daring.

She moves her head, taking his nose out of her hair, and kisses him, soft and sweet. "If you wouldn't mind," she says sweetly when she breaks apart. Enjoying his expression.

It's true she's being nicer to him than she's ever been, but he's helped her so much more than he's actually had to. He could have just left her at the cabin, or at the Sheriff's department, or even here at the hotel. Instead he's stayed. Stayed and comforted her, brought her back from the edge.

Maybe when  _ she's  _ feeling more like herself they'll snark and banter again, but for now it's kind of nice to be just people with each other.

Her kiss works to distract him, and Peter softens up once again. When she pulls back and speaks, he thinks he will. After a moment.

Cupping a hand behind her head, he pulls her in for one more soft kiss. Just a touch of lips to lips. When he breaks apart, he slips out of her embrace and off the bed and into the bathroom first, using a sealed hotel toothbrush to clean himself up before leaving the room with a key card to check the lobby downstairs.

She hadn’t exactly expected it to work, but she won't deny that it pleases her. Though the second kiss had taken her by complete surprise; it'd been an absent sort of kiss, the sort you gave to a lover and she found herself thinking almost solely about that after Peter left.

They have a small breakfast area, so Peter grabs a tray and ends up putting something of everything on it. He doesn't know what she likes, so she can just have her pick. He makes another for himself and heads back to their room with both in hand.

He taps on the door with his foot, having both hands occupied, and calls out, "It's me."

His rapping and voice at the door tugs her out of her thoughts. "Just a sec," she calls out. While she'd love to just open the door as it, there's decency to think of, so she reaches into the bag Peter had packed and snags a shirt; it swamps her, of course, but she’s alright with that.

Opening the door she smiles at Peter and the food. "Mmmm, smells good." She takes a plate and steps back for Peter to enter; partly relieved that he's back.

"I didn't know what you liked," he says, stepping into the room with both trays, "so I just grabbed one of everything." He finishes it a little lamely and puts the rest of her tray on the bed, though she has one of the plates in hand already. Peter takes his to the table and chairs, finding it a little more comfortable than trying to balance it in his lap on the bed.

"I think I'll pretty much eat anything right now," she answers, settling against the headboard and tugging the tray next to her. The food's alright, but she'll live.

He starts eating a sausage, glancing over at her. "Any thoughts to where you want to go after this?"

In truth, he's trying to figure out her plan without outright asking her. He knows what his plan is, but Lydia has been run down to the end of her batteries and he's just been trying to keep her safe.

She shrugs, curling her legs underneath her. "I don't have any real thoughts on it." Her mind still can't really get past 'everyone's dead and Peter's helping you'.

Peter supposes he doesn't have to push it until he is ready to leave, so he leaves it be.

"Well," he reminds her, "you said you wanted clothes, so I can bring you by your house to pick some up, and I still want to swing by the family vault to pick up a few things." He looks at her again, an unspoken question hanging in the air. "You can come with," he finally says, verbalizing it as casually as possible.

She nods, "clothes  _ would _ be nice." And bras, actual bras that fit.

Peter seems to try for casual and partly succeeds. "Yes," she answers plainly, not seeing the point of dancing around it. Right now she can't really stand the thought of being alone for too long; afraid the yawning darkness will consume her again and she'll have nothing to pull her back.

She shoves a forkful of eggs into her mouth to keep from giving away any of that. The emotional part of her is still wary around Peter, afraid he might do the same thing his younger illusion had and break her heart.

He finishes up, accepting her answer in silence, and reaches for a napkin to clean up. Only belatedly he remembers the tea she mentioned earlier, and checks the coffee pot to find they thankfully have coffee and tea packets.

He gets to brewing a pot, moving quickly as he goes from one task to another. His feet take him across the room, where he considers changing the pants and decides why not, so he sits down on the edge of the bed and removes his boots before shucking the khakis for a pair of blue jeans. Slipping his boots back on, he glances at the nightstand and realizes he left the condoms out.

Without making a scene about it, he gets up to grab them and stuffs them into his duffle bag and sits back down on the bed, glancing at Lydia. "Whenever you're ready," Peter tells her, not wanting to sound pushy, but he's a little antsy about lingering too long.

She watches, unsure of what to say, as Peter goes about...doting on her? Really she has no idea what to call it. Chewing slowly she watches as he starts to heat up water, then as he changes his pants. The jeans suit him worlds better than khaki ever will, and he really does look like Peter, even if he's not acting like it.

She finds herself squirming a little as she watches him negligently toss the condoms into his bag. Half an hour ago she might not have wanted sex, but she finds that she might want it now; it would make an excellent distraction at the very least.

The last sausage link gets shoved into her mouth at Peter's expectant look. She knows she said she wanted tea, but she finds she's now just as eager to go as him; otherwise she might try to seduce him.

Getting up she piles up her dishes on the tray and crawls off the bed, standing she goes and turns off the heating water. For a few seconds she stares at the daisy dress and the flip flops, then down at the hem of the shirt she's wearing.

It's long enough that she could get away with it, though it won't do much in the way of keeping her 'hidden', but she only has to make it to the car. After that it shouldn't be that far to her house and her own clothes.

So with a shrug she slips on the flip flops. "Alright I'm ready."

As soon as she says she's ready, Peter grabs his bag. He takes a moment to make a cup of tea just to take with him. It should cool off by the time they reach her house or the vault. He leads the way downstairs, turning to go to the office long enough to turn in the key cards. He already paid for the room, and they're out before the check out hour, so they're good to go.

He's moving a little mechanically, going through the motions, because it's starting to hit him how ready he is to leave.

It's strange checking out, the lady at the desk gives them a knowing smile and asks about where they're headed to. Lydia, who usually prides herself on her social skills, finds herself at a loss for what to do.

But once they're free she finds herself frowning at the still raining sky, and bracing herself dashes to the car, only a little conscious of how much Peter's shirt clings to her. Granted she doesn't get sopping wet, so that's good.

Peter gets to the car and tosses the duffle bag in the back with the rest of his bags. He wonders if Lydia will even notice how much he's packed and comment on it. She was out yesterday, so she never saw them. He gets in the driver seat and waits on Lydia to buckle before cranking the engine. A part of him thinks he ought to leave her at her house. What's the point in taking her to the vault, anyway? He's just going to skip town after that.

Despite himself, he taps his fingers nervously against the steering wheel.

She finds herself frowning at how many bags Peter has in his back seat. Was he planning on leaving?

As she buckled up she thinks about that, not necessarily from his perspective, but hers. It's not as if there's anything here for her, she's eighteen and anyone she's ever called friend are all dead. And did she really want to stay in a town where everyone would look at her and whisper because of that? She didn't need to stay in school, she had more than enough credits to graduate and she could do all the degree form stuff over the phone and by e-mail.

The idea of a fresh start is a seductive one, and one with Peter? She probably likes that more than Scott or Stiles would like if they were still alive.

Feeling chilly she reaches over and turns up the heat a little. All the while wondering what she'd be willing to leave behind and what she couldn't live without.

The drive to her house is quiet. Peter remembers the way without having to ask for directions, though he hopes Lydia doesn't say anything about it. He pulls up to an empty driveway, guessing that nobody is home, and parks the vehicle. He leaves the engine running for the heat, the chill of the rain seeping through his clothes somewhat. "I'll wait here," he says, assuming she is only changing into a fresh set of her own clothes. However, as soon as he says it, he glances up warily at the house through the windshield wipers. "On second thought, maybe I should go inside with you."

If he was afraid of them showing up at his apartment, why wouldn't they show up here, too?

She's only a little surprised when he says he's going with her. He's been trying to protect her ever since they left Eichen, why not here too. Not that she's going to complain.

Despite her mom not being home the door still opens when she tries it; Lydia heaves a sigh and scoops up Prada when he trots to them, yapping a little at Peter. "Sush," she chides burying her face in Prada's fur for a second before setting him down again.

Taking the steps two at a time she ascends the stairs and goes into her room. rooting around in her closet for a few seconds she hauls out her suitcase. Hoisting the suitcase onto her bed she unzips it, then goes to her closet and stares at her clothes wondering what she wants to keep most of all.

Peter doesn't immediately follow Lydia up. Instead, he crouches on the floor in front of Prada, sticks out his hand, and gives the dog a moment. Prada liked him well enough once before, why not now?

The dog remains wary of him, though, even after sniffing, and totters off into the darkness.

Sighing, Peter pushes back up to his feet and glances around. The place seems empty, but he checks the first floor just to make sure. After inspecting around and finding nothing, Peter looks up the stairs. He ascends them after Lydia, getting to her cracked open door and knocking before barging in. "Are you decent?"

Peter's question pulls her out of her thoughts and makes her jump a little. She rolls her eyes even if she's alone. "I'm still dressed if that's what you're asking." She'd completely forgotten to change, so used to wearing this shirt. "And really Peter? You've seen it all."

Striding over to her dresser she yanks out her top drawer and takes out some fresh underwear and a bra, tossing the rest into her suitcase. Even the sexier stuff.

Lydia's announcement makes Peter roll his eyes. There it is. He has been waiting for some sense of normalcy to return between them. "I'm just trying to be polite," he retorts, though more for his own benefit than hers, and pushes into the room. "You know, being a werewolf doesn't mean I have to be an animal. And us having sex doesn't mean I'm--"

Peter pauses mid-sentence. His eyes catch the suitcase, the amount of clothes Lydia is throwing into it. At first, confusion sets in, but his mind doesn't jump to any sudden conclusions. Except that Lydia must have figured out where she wanted to go. That's a good thing.

"...Entitled to see you naked," he finishes quietly, and then glances around her room. "So, you figured out where you wanted to go?"

Not really caring if he sees her naked again she strips off his shirt, joining the pile of clothes that she should actually pack-pack if she wants to fit it all in the suitcase, and underwear; quickly dressing in her new underthings. "Entitlement has nothing to do with it Peter." At least from her perspective.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees him look around, clearly taken aback by the whirlwind her room's become.

"I've got a good idea," anywhere that's not Beacon Hills is a good start.

"You need any help?" he asks, glancing back at Lydia and getting an eyeful before she manages to hide it all under a new bra and panties. Peter cocks his head to the side. "Packing, I mean."

The dress she picks to wear is colorful and bright, she hopes it'll be enough to brighten her mood at least enough.

An electric shiver passes through her at his words, true they've had sex, but there's something a whole lot more intimate about having him touch all of the clothes she'll be taking with her. But, in for a penny... "Sure. You can fold them," she says as airily as possible as she goes into her bathroom, grabbing her favorite makeup and beauty products. 

A deep sigh wracks his lungs as he rolls his eyes again. Really, folding? He should've kept his mouth shut. He wants this to go as fast as possible, though. He hardly wants to linger here for longer than they have to, so he folds her clothes until they pack more neatly into the suitcase, still leaving some space for more. Peter looks over his shoulder. "How much are you bringing?"

This is definitely more than a few nights' worth.

She returns to her room, hands full with her overflowing makeup bag, and arches an eyebrow at Peter's question. "Everything I don't want to go without."

After tucking in her bag she goes to her desk and slides her laptop into it's sleeve. "I highly doubt you'd like to turn around just because I forgot something, so overpacking."

She's right about that. He'd rather not turn around at the last minute because she forgot something. "You haven't even given me an address yet," Peter says carelessly. He looks back at the suitcase, throwing his arms halfway up. "I have no idea where I'm taking you, and I kind of have to know  _ before  _ we leave."

She stares at her luggage for a second, then at her vanity still full of jewelry.  _ Hmmm _ , returning to her closet she hauls out a duffle bag she'd kidnapped from Jackson ages ago and starts moving some of her clothes, and her makeup bag, over to it.

"Why would I be giving you an address? I don't care where we end up so long as it's not here."

At first, he just blinks. Maybe he just didn't hear her right, but no, he heard her right.

His mouth is hanging open as he watches her pack.

And that just opens up a whole can of worms--because Peter's not ready to be responsible for another human being, and if she leaves with him, he'll be  _ responsible  _ for her. Peter's not ready to accept that. He's not ready to accept ingraining another person into his life. He screwed up with Derek. He'll just do the same thing all over again. He knows himself. He knows who he is. And if Lydia intends on leaving with him, then she intends on living with him, and Peter doesn't recall a fucking conversation about  _ living together _ .

Peter snaps out of it, shaking his head. "No," he says, and his voice isn't as steady as he'd like it to be. "No, no, we didn't discuss this. We did not have a conversation about  _ this _ \--"

He nearly swears, but ends up covering his mouth and running his hand over it, his other hand on his hip.

Peter drops his hand. "It's out of the question," he says--firm, unmovable, yet his eyes don't meet hers.

She marches up to him, wishing she were wearing heels to make herself at least a little taller. He might not be meeting her eyes but she's not going to let that stop her right now.

"Why do we need to discuss it?" She's even being serious, she's more than happy to take things as they come whether it be a continuing sexual relationship or buying a house and having kids. "We just let it happen like we have been." On the other hand falling into a rut might be bad for her.

At least the anger's doing wonders for the cloud of depression that's been lingering over her, and still is really.

Peter meets her eyes at that, disbelief shining bright. "You can't be serious," he says, his gaze unfaltering. "Why do we need to discuss it? Because you're talking about  _ living  _ together. You're talking about me being  _ responsible  _ for you." He gestures viciously at his own chest with his hand. "Do  _ I _ get a say in this?" His voice is rising, but he can't help it.

She sputters. Her hands fly up and shove at his chest. " _ Responsible for me?! _ Peter the only person responsible for me,  _ is me!  _ I'm a fucking adult and I'd like you to remember that. And of course you get a say in it, as long as you get off your high fucking horse."

He staggers back slightly at her hands against his chest, but steadies himself and manages to give her the calmest and sternest look possible. "Do not shove me," Peter says. His eyes are sharp and bright, catching the light and glinting. "You know what I mean. If something happens to you, whose fault is that going to be? Hmm? I'm twice your age." Peter shakes his head, and if there is a sadness in them, he can't help that either. "I'm the last person you want to be tied to, Lydia."

She isn't scared by his menacing tone, overall she isn't very scared of  _ him _ either. "If something happens to me it's my fault," she replies angry-sweet. "Because I make my own choices, and can damn well live with them." Crossing her arms she glares up at him.

"I am not an extension of you. I'm my own Goddamn person."

Peter feels his jaw tighten. Fine, if she's her own person, then she's her own person.

But that doesn't address the myriad of other issues.

"Why would you want to come with me?" he finally asks. Yes, he plans on skipping town and Lydia must have guessed by the bags in the backseat, but the fact that she considers joining him so easily, well, it's mind-numbing. Also, slightly terrifying.

She's grateful he seems to have dropped the subject of being 'responsible' for her, because it's the most idiotic thing ever.

"Give me  _ one _ good reason why I should stay here?" She'll probably be insulted by it, but she is a little curious.

Peter opens his mouth with the intention of listing off her mother and father and other family members that might still be alive, but it's cut short when he remembers with a stark realization that this town is going to eat itself alive--and very soon.

"You would leave your mother here?" he asks because he doesn't know what else to say.

"If I abandon her then no one has a reason to come after her." It's hard to think about, but it's the truth. "She doesn't know about the supernatural world Peter, she's just a human."

In fact she's not sure her mom would be able to really comprehend this world if she did find out about it. Her mom having a tendency to ignore things she didn't like.

"The only people really tying me to this place are  _ dead _ Peter. I'll mourn them, but I don't want to torture myself and be constantly reminded of them every time I go outside to grab the paper." Her crossed arms shift to hug herself.

She's serious, Peter realizes. Dead serious.

And if he leaves her here, what happens to her, then?

Everything will be for nothing, and they'll just get her again. Eichen will get its hands on her, and what would have been the point of freeing her? Why did he do it in the first place if he is just going to leave her at their mercy again?

Peter refuses to think about it. Not just what they would do to Lydia, but the reality of what he is about to allow to happen.

He turns away from her long enough to snap the suitcase shut and takes it in hand before facing her again. Peter looks her, his face barely contained, and lifts a finger to point at her.

"I make no promises," he says curtly, turning quick to take the suitcase downstairs to the car.

The snap of him closing her suitcase shocks her, half in amazement that she's apparently won the argument she goes to her shoes and tosses a few of her favorite heels into the duffle.

"I don't want promises," she says softly to his back. "I just need someone who will be there," he probably doesn't hear it, but she feels better saying it anyways.

Almost on autopilot she zips up the duffle, slips on her sneakers, and follows after him.

Peter hears it, and he halts briefly, but it doesn't stop him. He goes down to the vehicle and puts her suitcase in the back, trying to ignore the anxious feeling in his nerves.

He gets in the driver seat and waits on her, watching the house like a hawk.

As she's hurrying to the front door Prada trots up to her again, barking softly.

Crouching down she scoops him up again, slightly awkward with the duffle, but she manages. "I'm going Prada," she smiles softly when he licks her face like he understands.

Though as she keeps carrying him to the front door she wonders why she thinks she has to leave him, he's  _ her _ dog after all; she can take him if she wants.

He wiggles slightly in her arms as she approaches the car and she has to wonder what he smells. Opening the back, which takes some shuffling she tosses in her duffle and then opens the passenger door, but doesn't get in. "Do you mind if we bring Prada?" It only seems polite to ask.

At her question, Peter starts. He was half in his own thoughts, but he is already allowing her to come. What difference does a dog make?  "Why not," he says, shrugging, and gestures at the passenger seat with one hand. "Are you sure you have everything?" He's not coming back, so they need to make good on now.

"Yes," she answers, climbing into the car. Anything she might not have remembered she can buy it later. Prada sniffs at Peter, and gives an excited yap before trying to lick him. Lydia bites back a smile. "He likes you." Which surprises her, she'd have thought dogs wouldn't generally like werewolves; then again Scott had worked at the clinic...she sniffed back her tears.

"Lets go," she is a little sad to leave everything she's ever known behind, but it's also a little liberating; she still has her plans but there's also the idea that she can do anything she wants now.

He raises his eyebrows at the dog, but it's infinitely better than her bringing Prada and the dog hating him. Peter reaches out and scratches behind the dog's ear. Luckily, without getting bit. Prada does bend over backwards to lick him, though.

The drive from her house to the vault doesn't take long, and Peter brings the vehicle as close as possible. He turns off the engine and looks over at her. "Are you coming?"

She gets out and sets Prada on her seat, "stay there sweetheart."

He gets out, opens the vault, and makes his way inside. Without wasting any time, he retrieves what's left of his money, hidden in a supplies crate because what's left of his safe can't protect anything, and knocks out a box of junk and starts packing what he wants to keep. Peter finds his laptop--left during his last visit, and Derek never claimed it--some useful books, and anything else that could be mildly important.

Trailing after Peter she just wanders the vault, staring at the books. "Is there anything on Banshees?" She might as well ask while they're here.

"I don't know," Peter admits, but he gestures at one of the shelves in the back corner. "You could check there. Feel free to take anything that looks useful. I don't know if Derek's coming back for anything."

Nodding she wanders over.

Pack law, a latin book on dragons, something in a language she doesn't know...

Continuing to browse she picks frugally, but doesn't see anything on Banshees. She gives a gusty sigh, you'd think it was forbidden to write about them or something.

Peter pauses, glancing over at her. "We really should get going," he reminds her a bit pointedly, hefting up the box in his arms.

Without waiting on a reply, he heads out of the vault to put the box in the trunk.

With a sigh she gives up the shelves for a bust she picks up the two books that looked interesting and follows Peter. Prada yaps at them happily when they return.

Once she's back in her seat she turns her head to Peter. "So, where do we want to go?" As long as it's away from here she doesn't care.

Lydia keeps saying we. Peter isn't sure how he feels about it yet. The cabin was one thing, but they're stuck together now. If she leaves with him, there's no walking away from it. It's definite. Unless she gets on her own feet somewhere, but Peter has the distinct sense that she's leaving with him for the company.

"I don't know," Peter finally says, his throat a little dry. He pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the road, heading for the interstate. "My first thought was to drive far enough away that whatever explosion that happens here doesn't reach me."

He thinks about it. "South or east?" Not north. He could do without dark, dreary skies and endless cold.

"East," for all that Lydia has plans she's never even left the west coast. "No one looks for you in the middle states," she jokes; though it feels flat to her.

Which makes two, because Peter's never left the west coast either. He makes an obvious sound of distaste in the back of his throat. "I'm not staying in the midwest," Peter declares. "If we go east, we go all the way east."

She finds herself laughing, a real laugh even. "Alright," she agrees, a smile still on her face. "I have no problem with that, I always planned on MIT for my college anyways." She doesn't see having any real problems applying, her grades and extracurriculars she feels basically guarantees her a spot. She opens her window a little, letting in some of the cool air--and grateful that the rain's died down—Prada stands up against the door sticking his nose out the window. "Then let's go." Once again she reaches out and lays her hand on top of Peter's.

He actually smiles at her laugh, finding some of the recent tension leaving him. When her hand rests on top of his between them, Peter glances down at it. His eyes focus on the road again a moment later.

"So," he says, "you wanna go to Massachusetts?" He lets out an amused sigh. "All I can think about is people with bad Boston accents."

This isn't so bad, he thinks.

An amused snort escapes her. "We don't have to live  _ in _ Boston, somewhere on the coast nearby would be nice." She always has liked the ocean and certainly wouldn't mind living next to it.

Reaching out with her other hand she flicks on the radio, tuning it to a classical station, then turning the volume down so that it became background noise.

He hums in agreement. "The coast would be nice," he says idly. Beacon Hills didn't have a coast, and Peter never thought about it much. He was so used to woodland. A change of literal scenery on top of the general move might help him put his old life behind him. His hand turns under hers, fingers threading with her own and clenching gently. It never did him any good. None of his schemes, none of his dreams either...they all left him trapped in his head at Eichen with four walls closing in everyday and drowning him.

The road blurs, and Peter quickly lets go of her hand to dash the blur out of his eyes. He doesn't return his hand to hers, settling both a little unsteadily onto the wheel and focusing on the road ahead.

"The first town we like the name of?" She continues blithely, deciding not to comment on his tears; it's only polite. "Leave  _ something _ to chance." And if anyone  _ did _ happen to follow them it would be harder to guess where they were heading. And is that going to be her life now? That she constantly looks over her shoulder?

She hopes not. Prada's head bumps her chin and she absently starts scratching his head. "I think I'd like to live  _ on _ the beach, hear the sounds of the ocean every night..." She at least could find that calming.

"I'll let you pick," Peter says, his voice rougher than before. He clears his throat. "As long as I like the weather and it's mild." He raises his eyebrows a moment later, even if she isn't looking. "Beachfront property is expensive," he adds, mourning the immense amount of money he used to have. But reclusive. And private.

"Yes, Massachusetts, known the world around for it's temperate seasons," she says mildly, but something about it just hits her and she stares out the window, biting back a sob and trying to keep her tears at bay.

When she feels mostly recovered she speaks again. "I don't mind getting a job," she has a college fund that her grandmother set up so at least she won't have to worry about that, and she could apply to a few scholarships or grants too, to free up some of that money if they somehow did get that strapped.

Peter glances over at her. He isn't sure what caused that, but he figures he'll be quiet about it.

"I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I can find a way to make money," Peter tells her. But that, too, fills him with a mild sense of dread. It's not something he's ever had to worry about before.

Peter almost feels as though he's driving towards the edge of a cliff instead of the interstate. It's starting to really sink home what all of this means.

"I'm sure you can," her smile doesn't completely banish her sadness, but that's alright.

On impulse she reaches out for him again, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow. It's a little awkward, but she can live with that. "Clean slates." Just the thought makes her feel lighter.

He returns his arm to the space between them, allowing the gears to start turning in his mind. Maybe while they're on the road, he can begin picking out ideas and formulating a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

Hours pass, and they have to stop for gas and food. Not to mention stretching and bathroom breaks, and it doesn't take long after that for the sky to darken and Peter's hands to go numb gripping the steering wheel, so he peels his eyes for the next motel or hotel--he doesn't care which--and pulls off at the first one they see.

At first Lydia finds the silence unnerving, she's use to chatter, idle of not filling the space.

Prada fell asleep at her feet about an hour into the drive, though when they stopped the first time he seemed more than happy to run off and do his business. She nearly offers to drive herself, but holds back; something in her telling her to leave it be for now. Maybe she'd mention it tomorrow.

So she watches the scenery change, from forest, to mountains, to the desert right around the 'Welcome to Navada!' sign they passed.

She's amazed that the motel lets her bring Prada up to the room, she'd been half ready to browbeat the clerk into letting her do it because there was no way in hell she's going to leave him in the car all night.

The silence continues all the way into the room where Peter practically vanishes into the bathroom, seemingly running on autopilot. She sets Prada on one of the chairs, where he curls up and goes to sleep, while she meanders around the tiny room.

Without a word uttered the entire time from the first moment they enter the room, Peter hits the shower before Lydia can say anything, but he's in there for less than five minutes and comes out scrubbing his hair dry with a towel and the other around his waist. He takes care of necessary hygiene measures with whatever the place provides, and then sits on the edge of the bed to pull on a t-shirt and boxers from his duffle bag.

Finally, he crawls under the sheets, exhausted, and hugs the pillow with both arms. It's too firm, but he'll survive.

When Peter leaves the bathroom she enters, she'll shower in the morning but she happily brushes her teeth and washes her face. Exiting she sees Peter already curled up in the bed, though he looks uncomfortable.

She holds back the fond sigh that tries to leave her, and changes into her own sleeping clothes; the shirt she'd stolen from him just this morning, which already feels like a century ago. 

Crawling into bed behind him she throws an arm and a leg over his chest and hips respectively; pressing herself firmly against his back. Sleep begins to tug at her mind. "Good night," she murmurs into his hair. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers Lydia curling up behind him. Half-asleep already, he turns over underneath the arm and the leg she has draped over him, and then he mumbles near her forehead, "Turn around."

"Mmm," she doesn't really want to, she likes this. But eventually she does, casting a leg back to tangle with his; snagging his arm and wrapping it around her waist. "Don't like being the little spoon?" She asks sleepily, distantly amused.

Peter doesn't answer her, only pulls up the arm she tugs around her waist higher up along her body, entwining it with hers fingers and all, until their hands are almost at her shoulder and he has her pulled firm against his own body, molding them tightly together and locking them in place. Every muscle in his arm is taut as he squeezes her close. He presses his face against her hair, his chest along her back, his knees curling up behind hers and forcing a slight curl to her own to accommodate them before his feet tangle with her own. In the end Lydia is cradled against him in a way that's inescapable, locked in at all angles, but comfortingly. He loosens his tight grip once he finds the perfect position, sighing through his nose against her hair.

_ Oh _ .

In her current sleepy state Lydia only starts to wonder if she's ever been held—and it feels more like being held than cuddling—like this before. It's certainly different than anything her hazy mind can recall. "Mmm, fine. You got me..." She drifts off, falling further into sleep.

She somehow brings their joined hands up to her mouth, pressing her lips gently against the crook of his thumb and pointer finger.

Then she slips into sleep.

When Peter wakes up, he finds himself still wrapped around Lydia, though their positions have changed somewhat during the night. He doesn't recall the last time he experienced something like this, so he shifts to get comfortable and remove his arm from its numb position under the pillow, but he stays in the bed with her.

There is no immediate danger, and they are already out of California.

_ lydia sits in a car, surrounded by her friends, their forms faint and whispy, like, well  _ ghosts.  _ they're looking at her as one, kira tries to reach out but her hand passes straight through lydia. "why did you leave us lydia?" _

Lydia's body feels like molasses as she awakes slowly from the dream; Peter's warm and pressing her into the bed slightly, but she doesn't care at all.

Just barely she can feel the bed dip and seconds later Parada's there with an insistent bark. She groans and turns her head to bury it in Peter's neck. "He wants breakfast," but she most definitely doesn't want to get out of bed again.

Peter groans. "Insistent little shit," he mutters as Prada barks at their heads. "Do you have anything to feed him?" He is certain the hotel doesn't serve dog food unless Prada can eat human food without getting sick.

She gives a sleepy laugh, "yes Peter I remembered to bring food for my dog." Their dog? She gives a soft groan it's far too early to contemplate shared ownership. _ The _ dog, Prada. "Issn my bag, bowls too."

It almost sounds like she's telling him to do it. Peter opens his eyes. He wouldn't put it past her.

He needs to stretch, anyway.

Slipping out of his tangled embrace with Lydia and off the bed, he snags her bag and drags it to him. The second he pulls the bowl out and puts it down, Prada jumps off the bed and comes running.

Peter just dumps some in the bowl, not really measuring it, a few pieces hitting Prada in the face, but the dog doesn't care.

He drops back onto the bed, lying lower than before, and wraps close to Lydia again, burying his face in her chest with his hand at her back.

Another laugh leaves her when she hears food just pouring into the bowl. Her laughter continues, if more subdued when Peter returns and buries his face in her cleavage.

Burying a hand in his hair she scratches behind his ear then tugs at his hair lightly. "Comfy?" Her voice is laced with amusement; the perfect way to banish her nightmare.

Peter nuzzles her cleavage as a way of answering, his fingers scratching lightly back in reply.

Then, as he stills, her answers more honestly than he even expected himself. "I keep thinking," he says, voice muffled against her shirt, "that I'm gonna wake up, and I'm still gonna be in that cell."

Her scratching stops, she knows what he means; there's a haziness to her that feels unreal, but she's fairly certain that's her grief. "You can't feel pain in a dream, or hallucination, no matter how realistic it is Peter. And I'm pretty sure you were in a lot of pain over that bullet." To prove her point she yanks out a few strands of his hair.

"Ow!" Peter jerks back from her hand, raising his head to glare at her. "Was that really necessary?" Also, not true. "I've felt pain in dreams before," he adds, rubbing his scalp.

She arches an eyebrow at his words, because that's scientifically impossible; but supernaturally impossible? Hmmm, she'd have to research that.

"I can kiss and make it better if you'd like."

He keeps glaring for a moment before rolling Lydia onto her back, pushing up her shirt and mouthing slow kisses against her skin. "Maybe I can think of another way," he adds, attempting to sound sultry, but he's mostly joking.

His lower back is killing him after all of that nonstop driving yesterday, and if she tries something, he'll probably pull away whining.

"Mmmmm," Lydia stretches, she could do without the slight scratchiness of his stubble, but she likes the intention. Even if he doesn't seem to intend to follow through. "I can think of plenty too," she agrees. "But the kiss is the only thing on the table, and not for long." She'd hate to be predictable.

Peter stops immediately and looks up at her. "You're a tease," he says, sighing and flopping onto the bed beside her. His eyes are already closed again. "I don't think I can do any driving today."

"So are you," she shoots back.

Rolling onto her side she pushes herself up a little, resting her head in her propped hand. "I  _ can  _ drive Peter, I've had my license for a while. Or are you one of those guys who don't want anyone driving their cars but them?" She doesn't think he'd be that sort of guy, but then again she'd never really thought about it in the first place.

"Of course, I'm more than happy to just hang out here all day. It's not like we're in a rush." A teasing smile crosses her face. "I think I saw a casino in the lobby, we could try our luck." 

Peter elects to ignore her first comment, and then shrugs. "I don't care if you drive it." He tilts his face up at her. "Gambling, no. Let me know if there's a wise investment decision downstairs, though."

He doesn't want to be the party pooper, but he'd rather cling to the money he *does* have.

She rolls her eyes, "so responsible," she teases. Ducking in she kisses his cheek to lessen the blow.

Moving so she's sitting completely upright she gives his shoulder a light shove, "roll over."

He isn't sure why she asks him to roll over, but he does it, anyway. Aftereffect of the kiss, maybe. "What am I rolling over for?" he asks, a little belatedly, wondering why he did it if he didn't know the reason.

A huff of laughter escapes her but instead of answering she moves to sit on his ass, rucking up his shirt to reveal most of his back.

Setting her hands on the small of his back she wished she had some oil, or something to make this smoother, but she wasn't going to change her mind just because she didn't have everything she wanted. Pressing her fingers deep she started to give him a massage.

Oh, he realizes, once she sits on him and pushes up his shirt. He closes his eyes, resting both arms under his head, and lets her get to work. He could use a massage, after all. Even werewolves are susceptible to muscle cramps.

She works methodically, being as thorough as she can. Musing that this is certainly a different experience with Peter than it had been with Jackson. When she gets to where she'd pushed his shirt up, she scoots herself up so she's straddling his waist and slides her hands under his shirt; getting as much as she can.

When she finishes she lays on his back, her chin resting on his shoulder. "Better?"

He could get used to this, he thinks, if this is what living together will be like.

She can't help but smile as Peter melted into the massage. But probably all too soon for him she finished.

Peter lets out a sound of approval before turning his head to speak, his face having been buried in the cradle of his arms during her massage. "Much better," he says, and then adds, "Thank you." He grunts. "And now I'm hungry."

Dashing into the bathroom she showered and put on her makeup, the familiar ritual comforting her. When she finished with that she dressed and took Prada out to do his doggy business, and when she returned she and Peter went down to breakfast; on the way out the door she pocketed the car keys, giving her a better chance of being the driver for at least the first half of the day.

And after breakfast the loaded up and headed out, and since they were basically in the middle of nowhere Lydia just played music from her phone; half-wondering if maybe she should get the number changed and ignoring the missed calls and voicemails left for her.

She started down highway 50, intent on just driving through the desert, but she soon saw a sign for the car forest and decided, since they didn't have a deadline or plan of any real sort, why the hell not and turned onto highway 95.

Peter notices the turn, glancing over at her. "Are we going somewhere?" he asks. Obviously, they are heading out east, but that would have been straight.

"The International Car Forest of the Last Church," which, really, is a ridiculous name, but she's not going to throw stones."I thought we might a well do something a little more interesting than just driving."

Maybe on the way they could even pick up a can of spray paint and add to the attraction.

Honestly, Peter has never paid attention to roadside sights. "I have no idea what that is," he admits frankly.

"And here I would have thought it would fit right into your gen-X wheelhouse," she teases, turning off the highway at last and into the little town of Goldfield. "Cars sticking into the ground covered in graffiti?"

There are signs for it everywhere, and more than a few places advertising spray paint, but she ignores them in favor of reaching the place. She pulls into the half full parking lot, she guesses it would've been too much to hope that it'd be empty, and turns off the car.

Peter makes a face at her comment when she isn't looking, but peers out of the windows to get a good look around before they come to a stop. He won't complain about being able to get out and stretch his legs, though roadside attractions have never caught his attention before. "What's the point of sticking cars into the ground?" It's not something he would have stopped for.

The parking lot isn't empty, though, which means people are actually here. He steps out, locking his door before shutting it. "Make sure it's locked," Peter says. What with everything they have stored in the car, he's going to be anal about that.

When she climbs out Prada leaps from the passenger footwell onto the driver’s seat, then out of the car; apparently just as happy to get out of the car as her.

This is new for him. Definitely new. These last few days have been a string of new experiences for him, though, so he might as well embrace it. He moves close to Lydia, staying nearby, as Prada circles their feet and then trots ahead.

"Does there need to be a point?" Before locking the car she opens the backseat and pulls out Prada's leash, hooking it on.

Standing back up she returns to Peter and taking his hand pulls him towards the cars. With all the graffiti it's hard to make out the actual cars underneath, but then again that doesn't seem to be the point.

Although she finds herself just as interested in people watching as rolling her eyes at the dirty art. 

He glances down at their hands, wondering why he's constantly surprised by this, and focuses his eyes ahead. But it's hardly the cars he sees, and he finds himself, even fresh out of the cramped vehicle, more antsy than how he felt inside of it.

"Lydia," he says, looking at her. They briefly talked about it in the car, but they didn't have a full conversation. Things are capable of changing. "Where are we going?" He looks ahead after that. His hand isn't still in hers either. Obviously, he isn't talking about the various sights around them. "Are we actually going to Massachusetts? And what are we going to do when we get there?"

If Derek is still alive, maybe he should try to contact him. Or should he leave him alone?

She finds herself pressing against his side, both to guide him to a less crowded area, and to comfort. "We're going wherever we want to go," she answers plainly. "Just as long as it's not California," her lips twitch in a smile. "or the mid-west apparently."

On the whole she didn't think of the two of them she'd be having an easier time of it, then again she's running from a definite tragedy, Peter? Well she's not exactly sure what, if anything, Peter's running from.

"And I like the idea of Massachusetts, but maybe that will change along the way. I wasn't lying back when I said I didn't care where I went." They're away from the crowd now, half-hidden by a car. She drops Prada's leash, hoping he doesn't run off to investigate some smell, she'll want both hands for this.

She steps forward until she's right in front of Peter. "As for what we'll do when we end up wherever we end up. Well, we'll figure out a way to live, the two of us, watching each others backs, make a life for the both of us." She tries for a nonchalant shrug. "Or maybe we'll go our separate ways at some point. Though I hope we don't." Reaching out she absently plucks non-existent lint from his shirt.

He can't explain the new anxiety or the need to keep moving until it goes away. Peter glances around, feeling vulnerable out in the open, and oddly, wishes for the seclusion of the car again. Even Lydia's reassurances aren't working.

"I don't think we should linger," Peter says. "We should get back to the car."

He bends down to grab Prada's leash, places a light but firm hand on her back, and ushers Lydia back in the direction they came. Nevada isn't far from California. He doesn't feel in the clear yet.

Lydia gives a soft sigh, but lets him usher her away.

She takes the driver’s seat again, considering his current state she doesn't exactly trust him to drive. Turning on the engine she lets it idle instead of shifting into drive and pulling out. Instead she turns her head to look at Peter.

"Peter," she says it as calmingly as she can. "I need you to trust me when I say we'll get through this, it might take a while, but we will." She feels it like she feels the deaths of her friends, with certainty and in her bones.

Peter stares ahead at the windshield. He clears his face before he glances over at her. "For now, let's drive," he offers before lifting his eyebrows in faux-relaxed manner. "And find a place that  _ does  _ serve breakfast in bed, so I can sleep in."

He tunes out the worries in his head as best as possible, but never lets down his guard. It's not necessarily that he doubts her, but if only it were that easy.

For him, it's not.

A heaving sigh escapes her, but she doesn't argue.

Pulling out of the parking lot she heads back up 95, pulling into the first drive through they encounter to get lunch—she highly doubts in his current mood Peter will agree to dine-in.

Getting back onto 6 she lets herself zone out a little, she doesn't have her music on this time so all she can hear is the road and the car. She turns onto highway 50 when they reach it.

And before she knows it they're passing a 'Welcome to Utah!' Sign.

"I can drive if you're tired," Peter offers. He has been keeping an eye out for stops, but he's not ready to stop yet.

"I'm not tired," she snaps waspishly. From his spot at Peter's feet Prada whines and she sighs, taking a hand off the wheel to rub the bridge of her nose for a moment.

"Sorry, I'm just..." Peter's stress is getting to her, it's the only explanation as to why she feels so irritable.

At the moment they're in the middle of nowhere so Lydia just pulls over onto the shoulder. "Yes, you can drive for a while," she says, keeping her voice even. She'll be glad for the little bit of exercise walking to the passenger seat will give her; and Prada probably wouldn't mind the bathroom break.

Switching seats with her, Peter waits patiently for Prada to do his business before they are back on the road again, putting more miles between them and California. They drive for hours, even after night falls, and Peter pulls over once for gas and continues into the next state.  _ Colorado _ , the sign reads, and there is a hotel not far. Eyes tired more than his body, Peter makes it there just in time and pulls into the parking lot.

Lydia dozes as Peter drives, even though it probably means she'll be up late. The upside to her napping is she doesn't dream, and when the car coming to a stop wakes her up she feels better than she had before.

Sitting upright she shifts Prada closer to her knees. "Peter?" 

"We're at a hotel," he says, softer than he needs to. "Do you need help getting your things?"

She stretches and unbuckles. "No," she opens her door and shifts Prada out of her lap, earning an unhappy 'woof' in reply.

It's cool out and she gives a little shiver as she hauls out her duffle bag. "Are we going to be staying longer than a day?" Either way it doesn't change how much she brings in, just how much she unpacks.

It'd be nice to stay longer thought, actually have a chance to really recuperate and get a hold of their situation. "Come on Prada," she scoops him up and sets him back in the passenger seat before closing the door. Hopefully she can bring him into the hotel room, but for now he'll stay in the car.

Peter has to think about it as he gets out of the car. "We can," he finally tells her, closing the door and opening the back to grab his duffle bag. Maybe this far out, he shouldn't worry as much.

"I'm hungry." She checks the clock on her phone 10:22 PM. Ugh.

He grabs a second bag, though, adding his laptop to it and some of the books he picked up from the vault, heading to the front desk and paying for the night. Outside, it's windy and chilly, but this place has the lobby connected to the rooms and elevators heading up. Peter checks the list of amenities he swiped from a pamphlet at the desk and makes a sound of approval. "They have a restaurant, and breakfast can be sent up to your room if you order it, but we're past dinner time. The restaurant is closed. I think it's just vending machines until the morning."

Lydia makes a face at the suggestion of vending machines, she does like Reese's, but she doesn't want that as an actual meal.

Still it's better than nothing. She sets her bag next to his feet by the elevators and snatches a keycard from his hand. "Bring my bag up please? I'm going to get Prada."

She returns to the car without waiting for a response. Prada comes willingly, and while the lady at the desk gives her the stinkeye she doesn't protest.

Reaching their room she slides the keycard in and enters, setting Prada down. "Did you hit the vending machines yet?"

He glances over his shoulder at her in the middle of plundering through his own bag, drawing his eyebrows together at Lydia's question. He took the bags up to the room, but he didn't hit a vending machine. Peter turns back to his bag again. "No, I thought you were going to do that."

Pulling out his laptop, Peter sits down at the table and boots it up, intending to take full advantage of the free WiFi.

Rolling her eyes Lydia feeds Prada, "glad we agreed on that on Peter."

Standing up she snatches his wallet from next to him and goes vending machine hunting.

After finding one she mostly buys trail mix and Sun Chips since they were vaguely more healthy than everything else. Then, not being able to resist, she also buys a pack of Reese's.

It took a little work but she manages to carry it all  _ and _ get the door open. "I return with food," she says as she goes over to the desk and unloads it all over Peter.

Snatching two bags of trail mix and Sun Chips, and the Reese's, she took the other seat.

Dumping the food into his lap causes him to pause completely, and then he lifts his arms as he stares down at it. "Really, Lydia?"

She snatches most of it back up, which just further proves she did it just because, and Peter moves the last two bags aside. He isn't hungry right now. He managed to pull up the recent news on Beacon Hills, which is oddly quiet.

"The sheriff gave a statement yesterday," Peter says, reading through the article. "'Unknown causes,'" he reads out loud, unable to stop the slight sarcasm in his voice from coming through.

He looks up, spotting the Reese's cups. Peter holds his hand out over the table. "Give me one."

Lydia manages to feel only indifference at Peter's words; but it does hurt.

Feeling reckless and needing to burn of tension she takes her time in answering, chewing slowly and swallowing before finally speaking. "No."

Reaching out she tugs the package off the table and onto her lap; it most definitely won't stop Peter, but at least it will be fun.

Peter draws his head back, feeling slight shock at her refusal. Either she does these things for fun or he has yet to understand her, but it takes him only a minute of remembering from the time in her head to suss out that she gets a kick from this.

He unplugs his laptop before shoving the table out of the way, hoping it startles her, and dives forward to snatch the package from her lap.

A yelp escapes her as the table goes flying, and she attempt to get away, forgetting that she's still seated.

She and her chair go tumbling backwards, while the Reese's goes flying.

Realizing how quickly that went wrong, Peter immediately uses his quick reflexes to push to his feet and grab the back of the chair to prevent her from hitting the floor. Which leaves them a few inches apart face to face.

"Well, that didn't go how I planned it," he says cheekily.

All she can do is laugh, adrenaline rushing through her and making everything more vivid. Christ, it feels good to laugh.

When she's calmed down a little she rises up and lays a peck on his nose. "You're still not getting that Reese's," she tells him sweetly.

Ah, so a challenge?

He rights her chair, swooping around her to grab the package that went flying and holds it up triumphantly once he has it in hand.

"What was that, sweetheart?" Peter asks, his tone saccharine sweet as he feels the second cup still in the package. 

She can't exactly stand since he's still looming over her, but she'll manage she's sure. "I said," she scoots to the edge of the chair and arches her torso up a bit. "That you're," she walks a hand down the arm holding the Reese's. "Not getting that," she snatches the package from his outstretched hand. "Reese's."

In a flash she has the packaging open and shoves one of the cups into her mouth, the other gets shoved behind her back.

"If I reach out for that," Peter says, "you'll just crush it." Sighing, he thinks he'll give up this round.

Lydia's not sure if she should smile in triumph or pout because he's giving up.

Well there are other ways she can share...

After she swallows she rises up even more and kisses him. The package slipping from her fingers to land on the chair behind her as she reaches out for his shoulders.

The kiss catches him off guard, but he falls into it easily. There is a slight taste of chocolate on her tongue, and Peter raises his hand to the back of her hair. He forgets the Reese's and deepens the kiss, slow and careful as his other hand presses into the dip of her back. The food doesn't bother him.

Her close presence is comforting, relaxing, the tension slipping away from his shoulders.

The feel of his fingers in her hair and his hand at her back has her melting a little. Wanting more than just a kiss.

Of course their current position doesn't give her much in the way of leverage. But nothing ventured she, well, standing isn't the perfect description considering she's still bent back nearly halfway, but she's definitely upright. To give herself a much firmer anchor point than his hand she hooks a leg around his waist, pressing them more fully together.

She gives a soft moan as she tangles her tongue with his.

Her leg hooking around him only strengthens the idea already formulating in his head. Truth be told, he hasn't wanted to push for anything, not that he has much been in the mood either, but sex right now would do a number for his nerves. In a good way, if Lydia is willing.

His mouth growing impatient for more, he kisses her with a little more zeal as he walks her backwards into the bed. When her knees hit the edge, he pulls away from her long enough to say, "You're not helping my self-control."

He pushes her onto the bed, climbing on top of her, and leans down just enough to press his lips gently to hers to see if she returns it.

The walking is a little awkward for her, not that she pays all that much attention to it what with the kissing and all, but she trusts he won't drop her, or embarrass her. Well, he'd apparently hold her until they reached the bed. Not that he gives her much time to complain from the way he climbs onto her, kissing her lightly.

Which won't do at all. "Maybe," she breathes against his lips. "That's the point." Arching up she kisses him harder.

A moan echoes in the bottom of his throat, and he kisses her harder in response too, pushing Lydia into the bed with his weight above her. He focuses long on her mouth, enjoying the simplicity of kissing. Why miss out on all of the little things? Lydia is the first woman he's bothered kissing in the last few years. Luckily, he hasn't forgotten.

He only leaves her lips to kiss her jaw, his hand gliding over her neck on one side as his lips travel down the other. "I love the taste of your skin," he whispers against her throat before covering it with another kiss, his tongue flicking out.

She echoes his moan with one of her own, pleasure curling in her veins and heating her up. It feels like forever since she last made out with someone like this and she's going to enjoy every moment of it.

Her head instinctively tilts to the side when he begins kissing down it. She finds herself moaning again, and squirming, at his words; her hands flutter for a moment, before she puts them to good use worming their way under Peter's shirt. "Sweet talker," she pants, arching her hips up to rub herself against his cock. "Flattery will get you anywhere."

He groans that time, rolling his hips to meet hers. Pulling away, he glances up momentarily. "Oh, will it? I'll remember that." He places a kiss in the center of her chest at the lowest point of her blouse, and then moves down her to pull it up and kiss her chest.

One of her hands slides out from under his shirt to tangle in his hair, valiantly attempting to keep his head at least near to where it is. She tilts up a little to help him remove her shirt, then tugs at his own shirt with her free hand. Wanting as much skin to skin contact as possible.

"Mmmm yes," she sighs. "But only if you're very bad." She wants to kiss him again, but she also wants him to lavish attention all over her. She hooks her leg over his waist again, the short heel of his shoe digging into his jeans as she attempts to get even closer to him.

As soon as her shirt is off and he feels her hand tugging at his, he pulls back enough to pull it off over his head before returning his lips to her chest. Peter slips a hand underneath her back, urging her up to unhook her bra. He barely bothers to remove it, just pushing it out of the way before covering her with his mouth and swirling his tongue over her nipple. He braces one hand against the bed, his other hand sliding between her legs and getting past the barriers until he can touch her with his bare fingers and rub little circles where she'll feel it most.

"Oh God," she cries out as she feels Peter on her breast and playing with her clit. She tightens her grip on his hair, but slides her leg away, giving him better access.

As she arches more into the touch she wishes they were in a different position, because she wants to do  _ more _ . Be more of a participant than a recipient.

Yanking on his head she pulls him up for another kiss, undulating her hips against his fingers; looking for more than just teasing touches. She makes herself break away from the kiss. "You know," her hands leave him, shucking her bra and moving down to unzip her skirt. "You never did show me how clever your tongue is last time." It's part tease, part challenge; but all in the name of enjoying herself. Maybe if she gets him to turn around she can get him off too. Or at least get him started, she wants him in her again, for the whole time.

Peter grins, kissing her once more. "No, I didn't," he says when he pulls away, and he moves down her body, sitting up long enough to pull her skirt and panties off in one quick motion before he parts her legs with his hands and buries himself between, kissing her thigh teasingly before going to the center. But he doesn't toy with her; he's far too eager for that. With his elbows on the bed, Peter moves from her thigh to curl his tongue along her center first to get her taste on his tongue. He repeats the motion until he needs more, covering her with his mouth and pushing his tongue inside her.

Her hips buck off the bed and she shouts at the first touch of his tongue. She returns her hands to his hair quickly, using the grip to press him closer. "Oohh,  _ Peter _ ."

He groans, alternating between swirling his tongue over her before diving inside, pressing fully against her and using one of his hands to grasp her hip firmly, his thumb stroking into her skin.

She parts her legs further, giving him even better access; her breaths coming in pants. For some reason that idly stroking thumb is even more maddening than his tongue and she's not sure if she wants it to stop or not.

One of her hands slips from his hair, trailing across his cheek until it reaches it's destination. For a brief moment she uses her fingers to part her lips, sending Peter's tongue deeper as a result, but soon she's sliding them in, wanting her orgasm now, not later. A groan leaves her.

"No," he chides, his voice a murmur, "let me do it." He gently removes her hand and slides two fingers inside of her, his mouth putting its attention onto her clit while he turns his hand up and curls his fingers within. Peter groans against her as he suckles, moving his hand quickly to bring her to a release sooner rather than later. He's hard in his jeans, ready to be rid of the restricting material and bury himself inside her another way. He wants to get at least one good orgasm out of her before they begin that, though. He drags his tongue against her, getting some of her taste on his tongue from his fingers, and makes a pleased noise at that before covering her with his mouth again and moving faster.

She half knew it was coming, bit her orgasm still manages to overwhelm her. A tortured moan leaves her as her body goes taut, her grip on his hair tightening even more, her other hand grasping at the blankets. As her body slumps back onto the bed she gives a happy smile. "Mmmm, I liked that."

Her hand lets go of the blankets and grabs his shoulder, tugging him up for a kiss. 

Despite her hand grabbing on his shoulder, Peter pulls off of her and off the bed. If he doesn't grab one now, he won't get up to get one. He rummages through his bag for the condoms, taking one out of the box, and comes back to the bed to stand at the edge. Removing his jeans, he leaves his boxers on and rejoins her on the bed. He lays the condom package on the bed, sliding over her to capture her lips with his own and kiss her thoroughly. He breaks away and nips at her bottom lip.

"Tell me your favorite position," he coaxes. He kisses her again, pulling away. "Tell me what makes you scream."

She whimpers and pouts when he leaves, but can't help but lick her lips as she watches him strip off his pants and climb back over her, condom in hand.

This kiss he gives her taunts her, stokes the fires in her higher. As do his words. Her hands scrabble at his back as she tries to focus herself. "Christ," she hisses, her mind suggestion position after position that they could try out; nearly all of them ones she's never actually tried.

From experience, he knows what does it for most women, but on one hand, it can be impersonal and they tend to not ask for it. He wants to see what Lydia says, though, rather than just trying something on her—if she has one, he'll be more than happy to oblige.

Remembering that makes her feel self-conscious and she looks away. A blush begins to stain her cheeks and she  _ hates _ it. Sure she's had lots of partners, but none of them were interested in things outside the 'usual' positions—which she's enjoyed but never really screamed over; and she doesn't exactly want to admit it. But maybe it was the partner and not the position and...

And now she can feel her side of the mood slipping away, she kisses him again arching and rubbing her slit against him. "Surprise me," she challenges, desperate to regain some of her previous heat.

Peter notices it, of course. A small smile graces his lips, though not a taunting one, as he touches her cheek.

"You're blushing," he says. He can't remember ever seeing a partner blush, and he can't say he expected it of Lydia Martin either. Running a finger over her cheek, he bites back a groan when she arches into him. He kisses her again, deciding he might as well go for the one he knows for sure works, especially with the right touch. "Turn over," he whispers, his lips near her ear and his hand stroking up her side.

Her blush deepens at his comment and she finds herself growing a little angry with herself. "Why wouldn't I be blushing?" She challenges again, hoping to bluster her way out of the situation. Maybe later, after she's hopefully had her mind blown from sex, she’ll tell him; but right now she's pretty sure it'd be a complete mood killer.

So she doesn't say anything as she turns over, a shiver racing down her spine at his touch. "What now?" she murmurs, not feeling shy —she can't remember the last time she was shy about sex—but certainly nervous.

He grins into her shoulder, kissing it, and holds himself up with one hand on the mattress as he uses the other to swipe her hair over her neck to one side. He kisses behind her neck next gliding his fingertips down her back. "You let me kiss you," he says, dipping between her shoulder blades and planting another feathery light touch of his lips. "You let me touch you," he adds, running his fingertips all the way down her side before stopping on her hip. He tugs on her, guiding her onto her knees before gliding his hand back up again. His hand grazes her breast without groping her, preferring tingling touches to get to her. Peter kisses her a little lower on her back, continuing to caress her, until he sits up behind her and runs his hands over her back and back down her sides.

She gasps and shivers at the kisses and featherlight touches, wanting something more substantial and yet craving more of the same.

As he guides her up onto her knees she has a good idea where this is going; she and Aiden did it enough while they were dating, but she expects, no  _ hopes _ , it will be a different experience with Peter.

He slides one hand up the center of her back, moving slow. "I want you to be comfortable," he tells her, and he bends over her back once more to kiss her neck again. "Take the pillow and rest down on it," he instructs near her ear. "I promise you'll be a lot more relaxed." He can still feel some tension in her spine, taut with nervousness.

Shakily she rises up onto her elbows and snatches one of the pillows from the headboard, folding it in half she shoves it under her stomach—certainly not something Aiden had suggested she ever do.

It feels strange settling onto, but she's trusted Peter this far; and at least this way there's less weight on her forearms. "Okay," she tells him. Feeling about as ready as she'll ever be at this point.

Then again she's grateful he's working to make her comfortable too.

Peter can't help but let out a small laugh. "No, not like that," he says, reaching under her to pull the pillow out and slide it back to her, unfolded. "I meant rest your head and forearms on it." He kisses between her shoulder blades again, hoping she doesn't get indignant towards him for his amusement. It's all about the angle to hit the g-spot every time, after all, and he wonders if her previous boyfriends ever did it right with her.

He slides off his boxers and sits up behind her again, gently rubbing the inside of her thigh as he makes sure her legs are parted almost halfway. He grabs the condom and takes his time putting it on right before running his hand over one of her hips and guiding himself with the other. His eyes flutter when he pushes in slowly, placing his hand flat against her lower back in the center. He goes in all the way before stilling, both hands grasping her hips. His eyes close for just a moment, and then he nearly pulls out before rocking forward again, starting a slow rhythm. She feels heavenly around him.

She flushes again, but accepts the correction. Tension and anticipation shivers through her at the sound of the condom being unwrapped.

His touch makes her start and she moans as he slides at the way in, she finds herself squeezing around him, gripping the pillow tightly she pushes against him, and she whimpers at the sensations that flood her.

His hands keep busy, touching her and gliding over skin, and he places his hand just above her lower back, adding some pressure downwards. "Arch your back," he says, definitely ragged, as he uses just a little more force with his next few thrusts, a low groan in his throat. He might as well be thorough about it.

The continuous touching helps too. She arches and moans again, "oh God." She presses back again, " _ more _ ."

This is better than she expected it to be, he's hitting, what she's sure is her g-spot and it's amazing.

His own nerves are taut and frayed, and he feels it when her muscles squeeze, causing a pleasant jolt through his abdomen. Lydia moans, and he wants to hear it again...and again and again and again.

His mind, only briefly, flits back to the reality behind them, and Peter grasps her hips in both hands and thrusts harder, moving quicker, wanting a release more than anything else. Every motion between them shakes the bed. He focuses on her back and the muscles beneath her fair skin, canceling out his thoughts as he pays attention to her body and how it feels to be inside of her.

This time when she arches it's instinctual, a cry escaping her as Peter picks up his pace. His hand on her left hip are dangerously close to her scars, and somehow that sets her off more than, nearly, anything else.

As orgasm grips her, her arms give out and she slumps onto the bed, losing her posture; at least she has the sense of mind to turn her head, moans and whimpers escaping her with every thrust Peter gives.

With less control than he had at the start, he does everything in his power to bring himself to completion rather than holding back. His hands graze higher, one running over the area of raised scars he left on her, and he grips slightly there, feeling more animalistic than before.

He thrusts deep, every muscle coiling at the sensation, and continues until he lets himself go and hits his own climax inside of her. His whole body goes loose as he stills, hands softly running over her bare skin in the aftermath.

She shakes and shudders as she feels his hand grip her scars, laughably it reminds her of some of the paranormal romances she used to read before her life started turning into one.

He twitches as he comes, and some truly reckless part of her wishes they'd forgotten to condom; the rest of her's too pleasure drugged to care.

A disappointed sigh leaves her when he, and his petting hands, do. But then he quickly returns, and she goes willingly when he pulls her to him.

Peter only reluctantly remembers to pull out and remove the condom. He throws it over the side of the bed carelessly and lays down on his side next to her, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her towards him.

Admittedly, he feels a little better, but with the fog of pleasure resting over his mind, that's to be expected.

One of her own hands joins his at her waist, tangling their fingers together; the other's flung out before her like she's begging someone to save her. She snorts softly at that and curls it back towards her, snuggling closer to Peter.

"Mmm, that was nice."

Closing his eyes, he lets out a slow exhale. Peter opens them again to look at her.

"Nice?" he asks, sounding groggy. "Is that it?" He rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling, letting out a sigh. "I must be rusty."

Lydia rolls with him, a huff of laughter escaping her at his pouting. "Ask me again when my brain doesn't feel like mush," she murmurs into his shoulder.

Happily she tangles her legs with his, and throws her free hand over him to rest on his chest.

Peter stares at the ceiling and tries to think past the chemical haze in his own brain. He raises his hand to her shoulder, gliding fingertips along it. "All of this over a Reese's," he says, lifting his eyebrows. "Imagine what would come out of a real disagreement."

She laughs softly. "Probably the end of the world," she suggests; she can certainly see it happening.

He looks at her, red hair splayed everywhere and flushed skin, and has an instinctive surge to suddenly protect.

Without thinking about it, he slips a hand behind her head and pulls her forward, kissing her forehead.

"We can stay for a day," Peter murmurs against her hair, his hand still in place. "Do something other than drive."

A brief flare of surprise goes through her at the forehead kiss, but she likes it. In return she nuzzles his shoulder, smelling sweat and something slightly musty —though in a good way.

"I'd like that, laze in bed and do nothing." At the very least it'll be a change from sitting. She gives a little stretch, before settling back against him. "But tomorrow," she mutters closing her eyes. "Sleep now."

"That's fine," he says back, but he looks over her shoulder at his laptop. He wasn't quite done with that yet. There are still some things he wanted to check up on.

But he stays in the bed. At least long enough until Lydia falls asleep and the chill creeps in from the air conditioning. Peter slides out from under her and pulls the sheets over her before heading to the bathroom to shower. He closes the door before he turns on the light.

Once he is out, he dresses and sits back down at the table, adjusting the brightness before resuming his online search on Beacon Hills, and then he also googles the local area to get a better understanding of where they are.

It isn't until his eyes droop that Peter rubs at them and turns off the computer. Finally, he crawls into the bed beside Lydia and goes to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Lydia awakes with a start, thrust into wakefulness by her dream, which slips away from her the more she tries to reclaim it. Giving up she pushes herself upright a bit and rubs the sleep from her eyes.

Taken aback when she notices she's looking at a higher spot than she expected, and that the 'bed' under her hand rises and falls. Looking down she realizes that sometime in the night she ended up on top of Peter again, and that he's dressed.

She finds herself frowning at that, but doesn't want to wake Peter to bother him about it, although she wonders  _ why _ she would bug him about it at all. She lowers herself back down, her face ending up against his neck, nose pressed against the space behind his ear.

He stirs not long after her, but it's too soon for Peter to want to get up. He should've checked the time before he went to bed last night. He brings up a hand to cradle her head, though, as the other arm wraps around her back. It feels nice. Why not?

He hardly thinks about the intimacy of it, just that he likes it and nothing more.

"Hmm, you're awake," Peter says, closing his eyes again. "I'm staying in bed," he adds, nearly mumbling.

The arms surrounding her barely give her pause anymore, and she just snuggles closer giving a pleased hum. "I concur." She lays a brief kiss against his neck.

"But we should also order breakfast," food is important for lazing about.

Peter barely moves. "You order it this time," he tells her. After all, he took care of it last time and he's still not ready to leave the bed yet.

Lydia gave a slight groan, but a whine from Prada had her pushing herself off Peter and crawling out of the bed. As she poured Prada some food and water she checked the clock. 8:46.

She strode over to the side table where the phone was and after a bit of rifling through the pamphlets next to it found the restaurant menu and hours. Picking up the phone she dialed the restaurant and placed an order that probably staggered the server who took it.

Hanging up she went back on the bed and flopped onto Peter. "Half an hour," she told him.

He makes a sound somewhere in the back of his throat as she lands on him. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't expecting it. Opening them again, he doubts he'll go back to sleep with food on the way soon and her on top of him.

Peter lifts his hand back to her hair again and plays with it.

"Are you sure about this, Lydia?" The question comes easily. There's no hesitation as he says it against her hair. "I can still take you somewhere with family. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins..." He doesn't know if she has any. The words are just slipping out.

He doesn't know why he's still asking at first, why he's still trying to give her a way out. But his hand grips slightly in her hair, and a part of him he doesn't want to acknowledge knows he isn't saying it for her; he is saying it for himself.

She leans into his touch, she'd always liked having her hair played with.

In response to his question she heaves an exasperated sigh. "Yes Peter, I'm sure. And anyways you're a bit out of luck on the family front, both my parents were only children, and all of my grandparents are dead." That old pain flares to life for a moment before dying down.

"You're stuck with me unless I decide to leave." Or he decides to leave her. To banish how uncomfortable that thought already makes her feel she leans up and gives him a brief kiss.

He blinks dumbfoundedly after the kiss, but tries to cover it.

"Oh," he murmurs in a simple breath. He didn't know that was Lydia's only family for good. He thought there might be someone somewhere, but she is on her own. Just like him. "Well, in that case..."

Peter doesn't finish the thought. Feeling no need to get too serious about it, he keeps it light.

He just knows his attachment grows with every day that passes with them together. A terrifying thought, if there ever was one.

"In that case," she continues. "We should eat breakfast, laze about, and watch TV." She's intent on taking it as easy as possible today; worry is to be ignored, and she's going to shove her depression as further away as possible.

A strong bout of neediness seems to overcome him, and his arms wrap securely around her as he looks lower on her face, not quite meeting her eyes. "As long as you stay near," he tells her in a low voice, fingers playing with a light touch upon her cheek.

The world seems to shrink, until it's only her and Peter; and she finds herself feeling more at peace than she has since she went to Eichen.

"I will," she feels the rightness of it in her bones. "This is the path I chose Peter, I'm not about to backtrack now."

Someone knocks on the door. With a sigh she untangles herself from Peter, kisses his cheek, and scoops up his shirt from the ground —she'd rather not show off to the staff. She rifles around in Peter's wallet for a ten and finally goes to answer the door.

She hands over the ten to the man holding the food cart, then takes the cart from him backing into the room before reaching out and closing the door. "Breakfast!" She brings the cart all the way to the edge of the bed and then climbs back on to join Peter.

The smell of the food makes his stomach grumble. "Eat what you can before I do," he announces, leaning over her and grabbing the nearest slice of meat within his reach. Speaking of food, he feels as though he’s starving now.

A laugh escapes her as she picks up a croissant and tears a shred off, popping it into her mouth. "Why do you think I ordered so much?" She's pretty sure there's enough to even fill Peter up.

"I don't know," Peter says flippantly. "Maybe you've worked up an appetite from last night." He glances over at Lydia to give her a knowing look before snagging a plate and beginning to pile food onto it.

Her laughter becomes a bit throatier with his insinuation. "If anything Peter," she teases. "You must have worked up a bigger one than me." She gives an exaggerated waggle of her eyebrows.

She starts piling up her own plate, making sure to snag one of the doughnuts that got sent up before Peter can even touch them. 

Raising both eyebrows, he shrugs. "I won't argue that," he replies, scooping up the remote while Lydia is preoccupied with snatching up a donut. "But it takes more than one round to get me really worked up."

She nearly snorts out her eggs, but just manages to hold them in. Swallowing she reaches out a gives him a small shove. "You're incorrigible." Granted she's more than willing to take advantage of it. "Maybe if you're good you can try to fuck my brains out," she sallies back.

Peter surfs through the channels as he takes another bite of sausage, but there aren't any movie channels and he stops on something that looks like one of those house hunting shows. "Now," he jokes, pointing at it with the remote, "if only they were showing Massachusetts property." He releases a dramatic sigh.

"I'm sure something will eventually turn up, they always tend to marathon them. And anyways we can get ideas."

And how strange is it to be talking about fucking in one sentence, then buying a house the next?

Peter drops the remote and turns toward her. With a noticeable tilt of his head, he stares at her thoughtfully.

"I'll have you know," he says, wondering if he can get more than just a snort out of her, "I expect us to mark every inch of whatever house we move into, so I'll take your word on that." He leans closer to her, lowering his voice. Playfully, he twirls a piece of Lydia's hair around his finger. "I wouldn't want any of the locals thinking you're free game."

Arousal roars though her, lips parting, pupils dilating, mind flooded with images: the bedroom, kitchen, right in front of a window where anyone could look in and see.

Slowly she sets her fork on her plate reaching out she weaves her own hand into his hair, letting her nails bite into his scalp. "I wouldn't expect any different Mr. Wolf Man," she's smiling though, a hint of wickedness in it. At the very least it should promise to be good fun.

"But we should probably get there first," she pops another bit of croissant in her mouth.

Considering he was mostly joking just to see her reaction, her response throws him off balance and spikes his blood. After her hand is gone, he looks forward again and swallows instead of clearing his throat, focusing damnably at his food and on the television set and trying not to think about how her voice sounded or the way she smiled or all of the mental images it rears up in his head.

Thankfully, his stomach still rumbles and it pulls his attention back a little bit. "Not just get there, but find a place," Peter adds, trying to sound casual about house hunting again as he tears into a biscuit. "I'd rather not live in a hotel for the rest of my life."

Prada leaps onto the bed and demands love, rolling her eyes Lydia reaches out and scratches him behind the ears. "Obviously." She scoots a little closer to Peter, 'casually' shifting her legs so they're on top of his. "I want something more permanent." And if hotels bother her, she can't imagine what it's like for him with his enhanced senses; and probably territorial instincts to boot.

Slowly she eats her eggs, focused mainly on the show. "I like that," she gestures to the master bedroom they're currently showing off, with it's own private roof patio.

He lays his hand on her knee and focuses on the show as well. On some level, Peter cares for interior decorating; he doesn't go wild over it, but the home reflects the owner.

He hums in approval, agreeing with her. It's nice, especially with that patio. And then, Peter blurts out a question he didn't even know he was thinking, "One bedroom or two?"

As much as he is beginning to like this closeness, he knows Lydia is her own person. She may want to continue that wherever they wind up.

The question catches her off guard and she's grateful her mouth is full of food, giving her time to think. She gets his implication almost immediately,  _ how long will this go on?  _ The answer of course is that she doesn't know. Having her own space would be nice but she also doesn't think she'd like to sleep alone anytime soon.

So she goes with honesty. "I don't know, two might be a good idea just in case." One say they might have friends who sleep over, or maybe a child, or some other far flung 'maybe'.

He lets his thumb idly rub her knee. "Okay," Peter answers. Two bedrooms. He is used to his privacy, anyway, and maybe that would be best. These are foreign waters, after all. He already thought her leaving with him was outrageous. Two bedrooms is safer. He had another reason for asking, too; each bedroom raises the price, and their funds aren't forever.

Living with people isn't a foreign concept, though. In fact, Peter lived with his family. Until the fire.

When he could be, he was always at Derek's loft, too.

Glancing over at them, Peter moves his hand from Lydia's knee to scratch behind Prada's ear. "Let's not get too generous with space. This one might take over."

She's a little sad when his hand leaves, but it's replaced by a fond smile when Prada happily leans into the touch. Lydia joins in, rubbing Prada's belly vigorously. "You totally would," she coos. "You're a greedy dog if there ever was one."

Some part of her still attached to Beacon Hills tells her she shouldn't feel so happy. But she shoves it into the same box she's been putting her nightmares. She damn well deserves some happiness.

For the first time in a long line of only deviant or humorous smiles, a genuine one crosses his face. Peter notices it as soon as it happens and pushes it down, not allowing himself to get too attached to the moment.

He's staring back at the television in no time, focusing on breakfast again. "So, what did you want to do today? Aside from lazy about? Or just that? Lazying about?"

Lydia decides not to let on that she managed to catch that smile in the corner of her eye; she saw no reason not to let Peter keep up his 'tough' facade.

"What," she teases; afraid you'll go soft if you do absolutely nothing for a day?" She could probably be convinced into another round of mind-blowing sex, but she really doesn't plan on doing anything more strenuous than taking Prada out to do his business.

Peter narrows his eyes at her for the teasing tone. "I'm not good at sitting still for long periods of time," he answers truthfully. "Unless I'm sleeping or waiting for something."

"Poor Peter," she shifts her shoulders closer to his chest, she swirls her finger through the leftover syrup on her plate and licks it clean. "You could go down to the shop in the lobby and buy cards."

She herself is more than happy to sit on her ass all day and do nothing in particular; though she might punish herself for it later, the overachiever in her wanting her to at least do  _ something _ every day.

He thinks about it, temporarily distracted by her licking her finger clean. Knowing she'll taste like sweet syrup, he takes advantage of the moment and leans down to kiss her slowly before pulling back. "Mhm," he says afterwards, "I might check to see if they have a pool instead."

"Mmmm," kissing him is still kind of a surprise, but an enjoyable one. Part of her hopes that she never gets used to it.

Peter slides off the bed and lands easily on his feet, heading for his bag and wondering if he even has any swimming trunks. Probably not. He holds up a pair of thicker boxers. "Do you think these will do?"

She pouts as she watches him dig around, totally taking advantage to stare at his ass, she didn't think to grab a swimsuit herself.

But she lets herself be critical with the boxers. "Probably," she responds. "You should take Prada too, he could use a walk, and probably use whatever patch of ground they call grass for the bathroom." Being alone in the hotel room might be a bad idea, but she can drown out any potential daymares with real estate TV, and maybe she'll give in and masturbate. 

Peter makes a face at her suggestion, but shucks his clothes and trades them for the boxers and takes Prada's leash before attaching it to the dog's collar.

He leaves the room, Prada in tow—or rather leading the way—and figures if there's no pool he can just say he is out for a walk. Prada finds a spot to do his business,  and afterwards, happily follows along. Peter thinks he might get used to the pup.

He finds a pool, much to his surprise, and considering the time of day, no one else is in it. The area is gated, so he lets Prada roam freely off his leash, and dives right into the deep end.

It's a while before he stops. Prada is barking at him, and his skin is pruning. Climbing out of the pool, he stares down at the dog. "What?" Peter asks, like Prada can answer him in English.

Prada barks again.

"Are you hungry? Bark one for no and two for yes."

Prada makes a little growl and lets out three short yelps.

Peter sighs. "That wasn't one of the options." He takes the leash and reattaches it to his collar. "Let's bring you back mommy and let her sort it out," Peter tells the dog, not without thick snark, and Prada practically pulls him along back to the hotel room.

She's grateful the TV's sill on otherwise the silence would be deafening. She finishes up the episode then switches the TV to a music channel.

Clearing off the bed Lydia compulsively straightens it as well, making the comforter nice and flat. With a tiny happy smile she closes her eyes and trails a finger up her thigh and under Peter's shirt, happily teasing herself.

Humming she tweaks a nipple, swirling her finger around her clit, but not quite touching it. In her mind she casts back to earlier, when Peter promised to fuck her on every surface in their future house. "Yes," she sighs, as she briefly slides her finger in.

_ "Lydia..." _

She shrieks, any and all desire leaving her at the sound of Stiles' voice. Scrambling up her eyes dart around, and there he is in the corner of the room, looking like Peter once had when in her mind: all red and cracked.

A scream escapes her and she find herself in the corner of the room, cowering. Refusing to look at him. It's nearly Peter all over again, except a million times worse she finds.

Halfway down the hallway, Prada still tugging, Peter hears the scream.

He runs, letting go of the dog's leash, but Prada races with him, and Peter only just stills himself from bursting down the door and uses the key card quickly before shoving his way inside.

The scent of arousal is overwhelmed by the scent of fear, and he's confused, but not half so confused as to see there is nobody in the room with her.

Prada reaches Lydia before him, and Peter approaches her warily. If it's a vision, he doesn't want to startle her back to reality.

"Lydia," he calls out softly, keeping his distance. "Are you okay?"

_ "Come on Lydia,"  _ Stiles chides.  _ "Just come on back home, we miss you." _

Then Prada's there, licking at her cheek, and while he doesn't make Stiles go away, she's relieved to see both him and Peter. Reaching out she scoops Prada up, clutching him to her and burying her face in his golden fur, it's better than looking at Stiles.

"No," she finally manages to answer. "I," she chokes out a sob. "I can, I can see Stiles." She knows it's an hallucination, just in her mind. But it doesn't change the fact that if she reaches out and touches him he'll be as real as her, that flakes of his skin will fall off from the brush of her fingers.

Peter glances over to where her eyes are, seeing nothing but not doubting her for one second. "Lydia, do you want to leave?"

He doesn't know what else to ask. Doesn't know if the vision will go away or if it'll keep coming back as long as she is here.

"We can leave," he adds, wanting nothing more than to keep her own nightmares at bay as much as his own.

She'd so badly wanted to stay, to just laze about and talk and maybe have lots of fantastic sex.

But apparently even in death her friends won't leave her alone. She nods in response, and then just in case he couldn't see it add, "yes please."

_ "Come on Lyds, we're all waiting for you." _

At Stiles' words Lydia finds herself bursting out. "Don't call me that!" In her arms Prada whines and squirms, instantly she loosens her grip and he falls out of her embrace. "I  _ hate _ that nickname."

She tears her gaze away from him, buries her face in her knees. Crying and letting out quiet sobs.

Peter closes the distance and crouches down, putting his hands on her arms. "Hey, c'mon," he coaxes, urging her to stand. "Get dressed. We'll go." He helps Lydia to stand and leads her to her bag. Gripping her shoulders, he looks her in the eye. "I'm going to rinse this chlorine off. Won't take but five seconds, and then we'll go."

He leaves her with her bag just long enough to rinse and pull on his own fresh clothes before returning to the main room for his boots.

She gives a small nod, grateful he's not doubting her —though why would he? He knows exactly what she is and can do, probably even better than her.

She dresses furtively, freaked out by the fact not-Stiles is still looking at her. At least she'd mastered the art of getting a bra on without taking off a shirt. Quickly she tugs on her underwear and one of the few pairs of jeans she owns, slipping on a pair of flip flops to round it all out. It wouldn't have taken her any longer to change into one of her shirts she knows, but wearing Peter's shirt is comforting.

At least there's not much to pack up for either of them, just their tossed clothing from last night. She just stuffs it all into her own bag, zipping it up and slinging it over her shoulder.

Prada comes easily into her arms and once again she buries her face in his fur.

Slinging his bag over a shoulder, Peter leads Lydia out of the hotel room, a comforting hand guiding her all the way out to the car. He opens the door for her, puts their bags in the back, and waits for Lydia to strap herself in before circling the vehicle and getting in himself.

When Peter climbs into his seat she darts over and kisses his cheek. "Thank you," she tells him, meaning it.

Mentally, he curses Stiles—or whatever it was she saw—and spends another day driving until the sun disappears again. A never-ending pattern to their days now, it seems.

About an hour into the drive she falls asleep —which she hopes doesn't turn into a bad habit that screws up her circadian rhythm. When she wakes it's nightfall and they're coming up on Kansas City; though really she's more grateful that she didn't have any nightmares than any real interest in where they are.

Her stomach growls quietly, reminding her the last time she ate was breakfast. "I'm hungry," she says quietly.

 

He doesn't say anything right away, but the orange lights reveal a few fast food places followed by a retro diner. Pulling off the highway, he turns into the parking lot for the diner. The lights are still on and customers are inside, but he doesn't make a move to exit the vehicle.

Peter turns to look her. His gaze is serious. "Do you still see him?"

Forcing herself to look around Lydia can feel her fear building.

Only for it to die when she does a complete 360 and sees only Peter, their baggage, and the parking lot and diner outside. "No," she sighs in relief. Glad they've apparently 'outrun' whatever new disturbing twist of her powers.

Unbuckling her seatbelt she leans over the steering column and kisses Peter, eager to banish the memory.

He freezes into the kiss at first, still surprised by these moments with her, until his hand slips from the steering wheel to stop her from pulling away and he returns it, leaning into her and turning what might have only been a simple kiss to a real one.

When he pulls back, he stares at Lydia. Half of it's tiredness. "Well, I could do with some food," Peter finally says.

He gets out of the vehicle before her, but circles around to her door. Placing one of his hands on her back, he walks with her inside and lets Lydia pick the table or booth.

Lydia's grateful for the touch, it feels like an anchor to reality. Prada's still asleep in the footwell and she's sure he'll be fine while they eat.

When they enter the restaurant she's a little surprised by Peter's 'go ahead' gesture when they encounter a 'seat yourself' sign. She picks a booth in the back, tucked out of the way enough that they're not obvious to someone who enters; paranoia taking hold just enough.

Though it's hard to stay paranoid in a place that's got a working jukebox that's currently playing Elvis.

Content, thought, with the silence between them for now she picks up her menu; she's hungry too after all.

When the waiter comes by, Peter is sure he orders, but he stares at the table some indeterminate amount of time later, and before he knows it, his eyes droop and his head tilts forward.

Despite her best efforts Lydia finds herself smiling, and, taking a quick look around to make sure they're alone Lydia moves from her side of the booth to his. Gently grabbing his head and guiding it to her lap--she doesn't think he'd appreciate being hunched onto her shoulder.

He jolts at first with the feel of a hand on his head, but sees Lydia, though blurry, and not someone else, and so he settles into the touch and lets her guide him to her lap. He closes his eyes and feels himself falling asleep, especially with the glide of fingers through his hair. He's tired more than hungry, his arm joining his head in her lap, hand resting on Lydia's knee.

She finds herself relaxing more with his touch, and it's nice...even if some of the nearby customers are giving her weird looks, those people can fuck off. But when the waitress returns she looks a little startled. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," Lydia manages a smile. "He's just tired, could we get his food to go?"

The waitress's expression softens. "Of course sweetheart,"--it feels strange to hear someone other than Peter call her that-- "You just look after your hubby and I'll look after you." The waitress winks and leaves.

Part of Lydia wants to protest, but the logical part of her points out that protesting will only make them more memorable, instead of just one more couple in a sea of them. Almost absentmindedly she starts running her hand through his hair.

Her food arrives and she unwillingly pulls her hand away to start eating. She eats slowly though, taking her time so Peter can get more rest; he seems to need it.

She feels a guilty twinge at being the one who basically put him in this state, but she also didn't force him to do any of it; so really it's just the social morays making her feel that way.

Peter naps through the meal, shifting at some point until his face is buried in her lap. He moves his shoulder, grunting at the small ache there, waking slightly and knowing he should move, but he doesn't want to.

She feels Peter shift on her lap, face pressing into her stomach and grunting softly. Tossing her fry into her mouth she wiped her fingers clean and reached down to touch him. "Peter?" She say it quietly enough that if he was still asleep shouldn't bother him.

Her fingers run down his cheek and neck, then back up his neck to settle in his hair again.

"Hmm," he replies, turning up to face her. The lights are bright, so he squints and shuts them again.

Half awake then. Out of curiosity she moves her fingers to the spot behind his ear and scratches sightly, wondering if it'd feel as good for him as it seemed to Prada.

He's lucky she'd already finished her burger and only had fries, fries were easy to eat one handed.

He relaxes, craning into the touch, and exhales a little sigh. Yep, just like Prada.

It doesn't encourage him to get up.

She bites back a smile and scratches harder, dragging her nails through his hair and down his neck. Repeating it over and over. For right now she's more content to stay here, the restaurant isn't that full, so there's no risk of them being shown the door.

The waitress returns and starts clearing up Lydia's plates, "you want anything else sweetheart?"

"A chocolate peanut butter milkshake."

The woman nods and leaves.

He curls his arm around the side of her leg, his hand resting on her hip, fingers flexing in a lazy in-and-out scratching motion themselves in response to her ministrations. Slowly, he wakes up some more and opens his eyes.

For a moment, it's as surreal as a dream. In a fifties diner on a corner in Kansas City, Peter's head rests in Lydia Martin's lap while a tune unknown to him plays in the background, mingling with the chatter.

She hums in pleasure when Peter starts returning the gesture. shifting to give him better access; despite what she'd like they probably can't get much more intimate than this. Still it's nice, and pleasant. If a bit surreal.

His breathing changes against her shirt, and looking down she sees that Peter's clearly more awake now. "Hey," she gives a soft smile.

At her voice, he looks up. "Hey," he says back, his voice coming out soft.

He blinks once, and realizing his position, pushes himself upright again despite all desire to stay there in her lap. Peter straightens his jacket, runs a hand over his hair, and looks around the diner quickly, taking it all in and helping himself become more alert to their surroundings.

He glances at the table, sees his food in a to-go styrofoam tray, and pops it open to eat some of it before they leave. "How long have we been here?" Peter asks between bites.

"About an hour and a half," she answers. It's been nice though. "Do we want to stop here or keep going. I could drive," so far she hasn't seen Stiles again so she think's she fine.

He swallows before answering her. "I'm ready for a bed," Peter replies. "This short burst of energy won't last long." He lets out a sigh. "And I need to rest. Preferably, somewhere soft."

She nods, even with her own sleep in the car her encounter with 'Stiles' earlier still has her rattled, and she wouldn't mind cuddling—even if she didn't get to sleep herself.

So she signals the waitress over and asks for the bill. The woman smiles and hands it over. Leaving Peter to fish around for his wallet, Lydia pulls out her phone, and once again ignoring all her messages and texts—she should really see about getting the number changed—looks up nearby hotels. "There's apparently a nice one a few blocks away." She tells him.

Peter only gazes at the bill before pulling out some money for it. Closing up the container, he picks it up to take it with him as a snack for later. "Let's go," he tells her.

Prada's happy to see them when they reach the car and when she opens her door he bounds out to a nearby patch of grass to pee. He trots back with a doggy grin, but she can't help but roll her eyes at him; though Peter would probably be pleased that Prada didn't go  _ in _ the car.

They head to the hotel in relative silence, not that Lydia's bothered. She scoops her 'living out of' bag and Prada up and heads in, finding herself eager for a bed too.

He follows behind Lydia, glimpsing the parking lot before shutting the door with a definite click of the lock.

Tossing his bag down, he doesn't bother with changing. Peter kicks off his boots, loses the jeans and his shirt, and climbs into the bed. He feels Prada jump onto it and settle in behind his knees by walking around in a little circle first.

With the scene in front of her Lydia almost,  _ almost _ makes a pack joke, but holds her tongue. Instead of following Peter right away she grabs her toiletry bag and heads into the bathroom. Taking what's probably the quickest shower of her life.

She braids her wet hair as she steps out, and despite how much she likes it, dresses in her own pajamas instead of another of Peter's shirts.

Finally she crawls into bed with him, snuggling herself under on of his arms and using his chest as her pillow. "Night," she murmurs quietly as she drifts off to sleep; feeling safe and cared for.

Peter is already half asleep by the time of her mumbled goodnight, but he presses his hand gently to her back and nudges the top of her hair with his nose. "Goodnight, Lydia," he murmurs back.

As long as the visions are at bay ...

He kisses the top of her head and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, a wild plot appears!


	7. Chapter 7

Lydia awakes slowly, feeling encircled and surrounded by heat. Not exactly wanting to wake up she keeps her eyes closed and trails her fingers up and down the arm holding her to Peter.

On a whim she hums nonsense music to herself.

The sensation of fingers gliding along his arm, as well her humming, wakes Peter. Wrapped around her from behind, he pulls his head back from hers to let her know he is awake.

"Are you singing?" he inquires with a cheeky tone.

She moves her other hand behind her to pull his head back, wanting him to stay close. Not that she really wants to think of the 'why' in this case.

But she stops her humming and pouts at him, not caring if he can see it or not. "I was _humming_ , which isn't singing at all Mr. Choir boy." She teases, raking her hand through his hair.

He allows her hand to pull him back. He fits nicely against her.

"Same difference," Peter murmurs beside her hair. He smirks, nudging closer and bumping his nose against her, too. "And I'll have you know I sing wonderfully."

She can't help but roll her eyes at the nose bump, clearly _someone_ woke up in a good mood this morning. "Of course you do, because God forbid Peter Hale be bad at something." She doesn't mean it meanly though.

And anyways she's feeling pretty good herself, amazing what a nightmare free sleep will do for a woman.

"I'm good at everything," Peter says in agreement, his hand rubbing lazily up and down her arm. His tone takes on a more serious quality, though. "And today? You?"

A small sigh escapes her, and here she'd half been hoping they could keep things light today; Peter seemed more like himself and somehow that made _her_ feel better.

"I'm alright," she finally replied. "No nightmares, no visions, or voices, just mind numbingly normal." A blessing really.

"Perfect," he replies, the chipper tone already back in place. "Boring. Let's keep it that way." Something he never thought he would say in a million years, but a break from the constant stress of their former lives would be nice.

Yes, keep things _boring_. Because that's how it completely is between them. She huffs, but smiles.

A soft woof from the other side of Peter draws her attention and she bites back giggles as she watches Prada climb on top of Peter.

He lifts his head to look at Prada. "So, the pup has climbed the mountain and thinks he's in charge?" Peter narrows his eyes playfully at her dog. "I've got my eye on you," he tells Prada teasingly.

But she rolls her eyes at Peter. "What? Are you afraid of little ol' Prada?" Reaching out with her free hand she scratches under Prada's chin. Which earns her a doggy grin. "I don't know Prada, do you think you could take him?"

Prada barks.

Peter keeps a completely straight face, blinking at Lydia. "It's called a joke," he says, turning to look at Prada next. "I have words for you after that bark, but on account of your owner, I'm going to be good and let that slide." He leans in toward Lydia's neck, sliding his hand up her arm to tug her shirt far enough to bare a shoulder before gently setting his teeth on it in a playful manner.

Lydia bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at Peter, it's actually kind of adorable—a word she never thought she'd use in relation to Peter.

But when he sets his teeth into her shoulder she arches against him, moaning softly. "I see how it is," she rocks her hips slightly. "Punishing the mother for the sins of the son."

He closes his eyes as she rocks into him. They're already flush against each other, the chill of the air kept at bay only by their combined bodily warmth under the covers. However, the moment to enjoy it is only brief for him because of the dog still standing on his hip and staring at them. Peter opens his eyes, biting his lip, an urge to laugh coming to the surface.

"That," Peter says lightly after settling his chin on her shoulder, "wasn't punishment." He lifts his eyebrows, even though she can't see. "But I can do that." He tilts to kiss her shoulder. "As long as poof ball over here doesn't bite my hand off..."

On an impulse Lydia tilts her own head and takes advantage of the fact Peter's ear is within nibbling distance, taking the lobe between her teeth and tugging slightly.

"Please," she murmurs into his ear, "Prada hasn't bitten anyone in years." And the last time he had it'd been because of Jennifer.

Peter closes his eyes as he feels her teeth on him, his ear tingling pleasantly at the sensation. "Good," he lets out with an uneven breath, trailing a hand down her side. Prada makes a little noise of rebuke at them and trots downward off Peter, falling between their legs at a small gap and squeaking ungracefully.

Peter laughs. He can't stop it. He pulls away from Lydia to create some space, except for his upper chest against her back and his head beside hers, his hand rubbing up and down on the curve of her hip. He ignores the dog for the moment, draws his hand back, and experimentally smacks her on the ass to see her reaction.

Well, she did say punishment.

Peter's laughter is infectious, Lydia finds; at least, after she gets over the fact Peter's _laughing_.

Her laughter gets cut short when Peter slaps her on the ass, her giggles turning into a strange strangled sound. Mostly out of surprise, she hopes; it's not as if she's ever done anything like _this_ before. It hurt, sure, but the spots now a little warmer than the rest of her and it tingles pleasantly.

Despite not wanting to she tears her attention from Peter, lightly shoving at Prada with her feet from under the covers. "Shoo."

Prada whines, but after a little more encouragement he goes; trotting off into the bathroom.

 _Now_ she focuses on Peter again, and while she enjoys their current position, it's not exactly ideal. She with far more wiggling than she actually needs to do she turns around in Peter's arms so they're face to face. Instead of saying anything she just arches a challenging eyebrow.

She definitely wiggles more than she needs to, and he enjoys the moment while it lasts until she is facing him. Peter arches an eyebrow right back, but interprets her change of position differently. "I take it you didn't like that," he says.

Wow, who'd have thought Peter couldn't read her for once?

"Welll," she draws out kind of enjoying this. "One is such a small sample size don't you think? You should do it a few more times...for science." Lydia Martin, sex nerd. She finds it hard to hold back her smile at that thought.

"Hmm," Peter drawls like he has to contemplate it, but it doesn't erase the twinkle in his eyes. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he rolls her on top of him, and then both arms are around her. His hands make a smooth arc over her bottom before hoisting her up on him a few more inches. It presses them closer briefly, drawing a low sound from his throat.

He slides one hand behind her neck and pulls her down to return a bite on her earlobe as well, and then lets go before raising his other hand and bringing it a little harder against her ass this time. Gently, his hand rubs the spot before he holds her tight and brings down another smack.

"Do you like that?" he asks in a soft voice.

A brief yelp escapes her as Peter moves them, by now she thought she'd be used to it, but it's nice being on top for once.

Pleasure rumbles through her as he nips her ear and she doesn't jump as much this time when he spanks her, her hips undulate rubbing herself against him. Just like the first time the pain is sharp, but brief, smoothing into warm pleasure easily. Well that answers that question at least.

She turns her head a little to hide her smile, and blatantly rubs her quickly dampening panties against his thigh. "I don't know Mr. Hale," she demures. "Why don't you tell me?"

He pauses at the formality until it dawns on him; he can't say he has done that one before. Briefly, he wonders if they're ever going to spend a day in bed that doesn't involve either pure exhaustion or them all over each other, but the thought is fleeting. This is really not something he is going to complain about. Not ever.

Peter leans up, dragging his lips across her jaw. He is well beyond half hard beneath her. His hands find their way under her shirt to caress the bare skin of her sides.

"I think," he breathes out, settling them on her hips and sliding his fingers beneath the band to grip Lydia and maneuver her onto his erection. A low groan escapes him at the pressure. "Ms. Martin, that practice makes perfect." He glides his hand over her ass, grips, and pulls her close. "And we should keep practicing new things," he says, his voice dropping low against her ear, "until we find the perfect method."

It's amazing how this all still manages to feel so new, even though they've done it before. She moans at his easy show of strength, rocking her hips to stimulate them both.

"I," she exhales shakily. "I concur." Reaching down she grabs the hem of her shirt and yanks it off over her head. Then rests her hands on Peter's chest, starting up her rocking again, this time in earnest. "Mmm, is that for me Mr. Hale? You shouldn't have."

His eyelids flutter, lips parting as she grinds into him. For once, it's nice to just lie there and allow her to do what she wants. As much as he likes to lead, sometimes he likes to follow as well.

He opens his eyes to stare at her, wild hair and a slight flush to her cheeks. "Ah," he says, lifting his chin a little, "I really can't help it." A grunt escapes him, and as she rocks into him, he tugs her panties down a few inches and smacks the bare skin. "I don't think you're putting your all into it, Ms. Martin," he tells her, raising a single eyebrow.

Her hips stutter at the smack, driving her harder against him briefly.

Despite not wanting to she rises up to her knees and shimmies out of her panties. Then tugs down Peter's boxers enough to reveal the head of his cock. She settled herself back down again, making sure the head of him was pressing up against her clit. "I don't know Mr. Hale," she grinds down against him, crying out at the sensation. "I don't think you're quite ready for my all."

A distraught sound resonates in his chest at what she does next, and Peter presses his head back into the pillow to prevent himself from doing anything other than letting her continue unhindered. He forces himself to only watch, steeling his jaw, and runs his hands up her sides. He moves them down to her thighs a moment later and glides fingertips against her skin, then runs them up her abdomen. Another distraught moan leaves him, a little more vocal this time, because she is wet and there is no barrier between their skin, save for his boxers still half on.

His hands leave her, but only long enough to tug the material down further until he is freed completely—but then she covers him completely now as well, and while that was his intention, an ungodly rough sound leaves his throat and he arches his neck, his head tilting further back into the pillow.

Watching Peter fall apart is heady, it makes her want to do _more_ to see just how far she can push it. Every one of his little touches sends off sparks in her, making her moan and grind and twist even more.

Until she's orgasming onto him, her hands on his chest keeping her from falling too forward, her hair falling around her to trail across his skin.

"C...condoms," she pants out; she'd love to just keep going, but she also knows it's a good habit to start with. Maybe one day she'll want kids, but not right now, not after what's happened to them.

Her pause gives him just enough time to recollect himself, though only under a haze of desire. His muscles fall loose, and he manages to look at Lydia through half-hooded eyelids.

"You're the one on top," he tells her cheekily, breathing through his open mouth. Peter runs his hands over her thighs, jutting his head to his left and her right. "They're in my bag."

She finds herself huffing and rolling her eyes. "Like I expected you to get them." Maybe she should devise a 'punishment' of her own to inflict on him.

With a cheeky smile she rises up slowly, intent on making a show of it. Getting off him she crawls to the edge of the bed, putting a little extra sway in her hips.

The sway continues as she slides off the bed and strides to his bag. Bending at the waist she unzips it and starts rummaging around, finding the condoms she pops back upright and turning around sways back to the bed.

Of course, he stares the whole time. It's hard not to with the show Lydia puts on display; the sight of her bending over draws his attention readily, and he pushes himself up onto his elbows to drink in full view.

She climbs back on, but instead of tearing open the packet and putting the condom on she takes the hand holding the condom and drags it across Peter's torso, letting the tinfoil scratch him slightly.

Leaving it on his belly for now she dips her head in, rubbing her cheek against his cock before licking a long stripe up it and taking the head in her mouth.

He lets out a little hiss at the scratch of the tinfoil, glancing down when she places it on his stomach, and feels his muscles clench in response to her cheek rubbing his cock.

When she takes him in her mouth, he falls back and lays himself back on the bed, a little groan escaping him.

His hand stretches out, caressing her hair back and holding her head. "Maybe I would prefer your teasing instead, Ms. Martin."

She hums around him in both amusement and pleasure, sliding down a bit further before rising back up and lapping up the pre-come from his slit. "I can live with that Mr. Hale." She gives him one final lick before tearing open the condom and rolling it on, giving him a nice firm squeeze as she finishes.

Getting back up on her knees she moves to straddle him again. Taking his cock in hand once more and sinking as slowly as she can onto it.

When it starts to slide in she lets go and throwing her head back gasps, the different angle giving her a whole new wealth of sensation and pleasure.

Once again she falls forward, catching herself on his chest, and sinking down just a little bit more.

While she's enjoying this she also feels like Peter could be more active than his is, so shifts the positions of her arms slightly to offer up her breasts. "You can have a nibble if you'd like Mr. Hale." It ends on a moan as she sinks down another half an inch or so.

"Just a nibble?" he asks, finally sitting up and moving her with him as he wraps an arm around her back. His hand holds onto her shoulder as he pushes inside her the rest of the way, urging another groan past his lips.

Peter sits still for just a moment, dipping down to her chest and kissing her, sucking and gently biting her breasts, before bracing his feet against the bed and lying back down again with his hands on her hips. He thrusts upward, beginning slow and being perfectly content with letting her guide the pace and choose the methods.

She pouts at him as he thrusts all the way in, "maybe you don't even get that Mr. Hale," reaching out she pinches one of _his_ nipples. "Ruining my fun like that." Men, so impatient.

Though her 'pout' is ruined when he thrusts again, a whimper escaping her as he brushes up against her g-spot.

"Ruining it?" he manages to get out. "I recall you being the impatient one the first time." He had been content for them to take their time, and she had been demanding for him to get on with it. He enjoys the pinch she gives him and returns it himself. It's starting to feel like a challenge.

"Because that was 'holy shit we survived' sex," she wiggled as he pinched her. "It's supposed to be fast and impatient." Resting her palms on his chest again she puts her weight on her knees and rises up slowly, enjoying every drawn-out second of drag and pull from the two of them moving. Savoring it she closed her eyes, lifting herself up just a little bit higher until all that's in her is the head of him. Then she sinks down, sighing happily.

He closes his eyes and stays still this time, opening them only when Lydia almost pulls off of him all the way. His hands clench on her hips, not wanting her to leave him. A pleasant ripple goes through his muscles when she does the opposite. "So, tell me, Ms. Martin," he bites out, "do you want to lead this or me?"

His hands on her hips kept her steady as she slid up again. "My dance this time, Mr. Hale," she answers, she focusing on contracting her inner walls, all those kegals she did paying off. Then starts to slide down.

With her channel so...narrow it's a tight fit, but dear God does it feel good. The feel of his cock dragging on her walls as it slides father in. A panting cry escapes her as it triggers her orgasm, not that she's anywhere close to done with him. "Though," she tilts her torso down, changing the angle once again and giving her access to whisper in his ear. "I don't think you're the sort to follow for long Mr. Hale." It's part challenge, part bet.

His lips part again, the slow drag stimulating him in a way he doesn't recall from before. She feels tighter. Not that she didn't feel exquisite before, but this is more heady than he remembers. "Ah," Peter hisses, "what are you doing?"

"Kegals," she answers with a grin. "They strengthen your pelvic muscles, so you can do things like this..." Tightening again, she drags herself up, loving that she has to fight for it.

He narrows his eyes, breathing heavily. "Is that so?" He slips his hand behind her neck and draws Lydia to his mouth for a kiss. When their lips part, he whispers against her mouth. "In that case, I'll just lay here, yours to do with as you please until you finish me off."

It would be nice to not have to do so much work for once. Personally, he enjoys the workout and the slight ache it brings to his muscles, but this will let him see things a little more from her perspective.

She hums at his words. "I'd like that. Mmm, maybe when we have a home I'll buy some rope and tie you up." She sinks down. "How'd you like that?"  _She_ likes the idea; Peter bound and having no choice but to do what she wants.

His eyes flutter shut again, more of their own accord, and his breath shudders in his chest. He lets go of her hips, finding little use in holding them, and lowers his hands to the inside of her thighs to trail them lightly up and down.

When his eyes open again, he moves one hand between her legs and settles his thumb on her clit. If she's going to torture him, then he'll return the favor. He moves it slowly, still gliding his other fingers up her thigh.

"I don't know," he admits honestly, his breath shaky. "I don't really like being tied up..."

There comes a flash behind his eyelids; he's been in chains a few times, but none of them in the bedroom. His muscles clench, and he shudders again, turning his head to the side.

Surely, that must take a stronger measure of trust than where he stands right now, as well as a lot of coaxing. Feeling powerless is not easy for him.

The featherlight teasing touch soon grows to be too much and she cries out her orgasm, collapsing onto him and shuddering.

She barely hears his words as she rides it out, but she hears enough. So when she pushes herself back upright she smiles, tosses her hair, then starts working her pelvic muscles again, to work him towards his own orgasm. "Well then," she says lightly. "I guess we'll just have to use them on little old me."

The few times she'd convinced Jackson to do it to her she'd enjoyed it. But now she found herself wondering how much better it might be with Peter.

She pulls away from him again, but Peter reaches up to bring her back down, just enough to press their foreheads together and bring their mouths near. He is close, and he needs just a small push to send him over the edge.

One arm around her waist urges her a little higher up, and he holds her tight with the other as he raises his knees and braces his feet on the bed. He thrusts up, a quicker pace than before but not wild. It's barely a minute or two before he comes, nerves shuddering in his stomach. Instinctively, he pushes deep—there's a condom between them, but that barely registers.

He doesn't talk, not right away, too busy breathing heavily and trying to catch his bearings again.

She lets herself be moved as Peter moves faster, her breathing growing short as she feels him orgasm.

As they both come down she tilts her face to the side, breathing into his ear as she rubs their cheeks together. She's sure she knows how Peter will take it, and she means it exactly what it is. And really they've shared a bed and spent so much time together that they probably already smell similar. But doing it deliberately feels different.

His fingers curl in her hair as he feels her rub her cheek against his; indefinitely personal, and something he understands, if not something he's done.

What should be just sex becomes more, and Peter pulls away. He doesn't know why; he could return it, but he isn't ready. It's too soon, too fast, and he pushes it from his mind as he stands up from the bed and pulls the condom off, walking to the bathroom to throw it away.

It's the last fucking thing he should do, and he even contemplates it for a moment before shutting the door. Without a single word spoken to Lydia or any explanation, he turns on the water and climbs into the stall for a shower.

An unhappy yelp escapes Lydia when Peter shoves her off and leaves the bed. She lies there, stunned and hurt, blinking back tears.

It's not like her to get so emotional, but Peter seems to be the exception to all her rules. And it _does_ hurt. Even more when she looks back up at the sound of the shower starting and sees he closed the door.

Prada whines and scrapes at the bathroom door as Lydia rolls over to stare at the other wall, not caring if he wants back into the bathroom or out of it. She feels tears slip from her eyes as she pulls the blankets around her, wanting warmth again.

 _"Lydia..."_ Kira's voice curls around her ear.

Lydia finds herself crying in earnest now. _Not again._

It doesn't take him but a few minutes to shower and scrub some shampoo in his hair and some soap over his body. When he shuts the water off, Peter hears Prada whining and pulls back the shower door to see Prada scraping at the door to get out. He completely forgot her dog was hiding in here. Instantly, he feels bad.

"Come on," Peter says, opening the door to let him out. Something else hits his ears, then.

Crying.

The feeling intensifies until his chest hurts. Great. Smooth move. He drove all day until he was exhausted to make her feel better, and now he's responsible for it.

Peter grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist, heading to the bed and sitting down on the edge carefully. He debates saying something, but silence is worse.

"Lydia..."

" _Come on Lydia_ ," Kira cajoles. " _We're all waiting for you._ " On the plus side at least she's only hearing Kira, not seeing her too. Voices are easy to ignore.

Like Peter's. Except ignoring Peter is childish, and she doesn't want to be that. "I'll be fine." she tells him, scrubbing away the last of her tears.

Keeping the blanket tight around her she sits up and reaching out grabs the remote, turning on the TV to try and drown Kira out. Finding a channel playing old Looney Tunes she leaves it there and huddles against the headboard.

Her quiet answer is worse than a yell, and Peter finds he doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. Then, Lydia turns on the television and raises the volume to drown him out in case he does. Peter gets the message pretty quick.

"I'm hungry," she tells Peter quietly. Finding herself unsure if Peter considers this an actual relationship or just a partnership he happens to get sex out of.

She should ask, but isn't sure she wants to know the answer.

She speaks again, and he hears her as he rises from the bed. Food. Thinking she might want a moment to herself, Peter reaches out for his bag to grab some clothes. "I'll go see what they have," he tells her, using the towel to dry off quickly and pull on something fresh. They should see about washing what they have soon. Before they run out and resort to wearing dirty clothes.

Dressed, he goes to leave, but pauses with his hand on the door handle once it's open. He parts his lips, but he doesn't know what to say, so all that comes out is, "I'll be back."

He shuts the door and stands there. He can't remember the last time he had anything that could be considered a real relationship. Flings. Brief dates. One night stands. A connection based in sex or attraction, flirtation. But feelings?

Lydia had been crying. Because of him. Peter had never made a woman cry after sex before.

His chest still hurts, but what does he say? That he's afraid of the same? That if he lends that part of himself over and it's no longer just fun, what happens if she finds someone else to warm her bed? What happens to that small, barely alive part of his heart, then, because he isn't enough?

Peter pushes away from the door, stalking off in search of food, choosing not to think about it. He learned a long time ago that lacking feelings meant they couldn't be hurt.

She nearly calls out for him to stay, that he can just use the damn phone and call up room service, but she doesn't, her heart aching from Peter's snub still.

But she's not sure if being alone with Kira is any better.

The minute she thinks Peter's far enough away Lydia starts crying.

 _"Come back home Lydia, we'll take care of you. None of this would be happening if you stayed with us._ "

Picking up a pillow from the bed she tosses it into a corner. "Leave me alone!" Can't she just have her heartbreak in peace?

He returns with some basic breakfast edibles and expects to find her dressed and cleaned up, but Lydia sits in bed still, naked beneath the sheets clutched around her, with sore red eyes and fresh tear streaks on her cheeks. Peter's eyes trail off and see a pillow, thrown at the wall and laying on the floor.

If possible, he feels even worse than when he left.

Placing the tray on the table, he finally finds his voice, a little unsteady though it is. "Okay," Peter says, "I'm not going to pretend I'm good at this, so this may come out entirely wrong and I won't know. But I do know this," he gestures between her and the pillow, "is because of me."

Peter stares at the wall, unsure how to continue. His arm falls back to his side. "I let you come with me," he adds a little more quietly, "because I didn't want anything else bad to happen to you. If I left you and drove off and they got you... that would've been my fault. Because I let it happen." He looks at her finally. "This is my fault. Maybe not the same caliber, but the point is," Peter halts again, fighting the next words out. His jaw feels like steel.

"I don't want that."

Part of Lydia so badly wants to laugh, because there's something disturbingly hilarious about Peter thinking her mental breakdown is because of him, but she clamps her teeth and presses her lips together to stop herself. At least thinking to hold up her pointer finger to let Peter know she _will_ talk to him; she just needs to stop wanting to laugh first.

It feels like an eternity before she's finally in control of herself, but it was probably only a few minutes in actual time. Closing her eyes she takes a few deep breaths to focus herself, because she's going to be a Goddamn adult about this, just like she's been telling Peter she is.

"No Peter, it's not, it's not _all_ about you." She exhales noisily. She's basically tearing down her walls her, at least when it comes to relationships, and it kind of _hurts_ . "I certainly didn't like it when you just shoved me off and went to shower. It made me feel un- _used_." She hopes he doesn't notice her almost slip, 'unloved' implies a lot more than Peter's apparently willing to give her, even if he did just tell her that he cared about her. Lydia knows full well that caring isn't love.

She takes another deep breath, because in the realm of things that are hard to admit, apparently hearing the voice of one of your friends ranks above 'you hurt my feelings'. "While you were in the shower Kira started talking to me." Kira's silent for now, but Lydia doesn't doubt for a second that she's still there, lurking. At least Lydia's pretty sure she's not _just_ hearing voices and seeing things.

"The pillow was because of her, she told me none of this would have happened if I'd stayed in Beacon Hills." You'd think being dead her friends would understand that she didn't _want_ to stay in her hometown, she didn't _want_ to be reminded of them every Goddamn day.

She just hurts, so much right now. "If I do something you don't want me to Peter, _tell me_. Don't just walk away and treat this like some sort of exchange...Unless that's what you think this is. In which case I'd like to know now."

She still doesn't _want_ to know the answer, but she _needs_ to know; needs to know if she needs to protect herself from him, like she had with Aiden, with her various one night stands. Quickly she blinks back the tears collecting in her eyes. She will _not_ let herself cry, not right now at least.

Surprisingly or not, the new information makes it all easier. "Oh," Peter says simply, glancing around the room. Well, that does change things. Kira made her cry. Lydia didn't tell him. He thought, at the very least, she would inform him of things like that. Angry at him or not. "I thought you would tell me if you were having visions again."

He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table with the food because he isn't sure what else to do. As for Peter, all he recalled was pulling out from underneath her—not shoving her, as she put it, but apparently, she read the entire situation different from him. Either she was so hurt by him pulling away that she invented a shove in her head or his memory is further gone than he anticipated. "I don't remember shoving you." Peter looks straight at her. "I think I wouldn't forget something like that."

He looks away, sighing. Perception is everything, and they're clearly not close enough to share that much judging by how this is going. Lydia held back from him. As for this being some sort of exchange, she says it as if he is the only one capable of it. She is a wounded, tormented girl, seeking solace and safety. How would he know if he wasn't a ticket away from it all? He could say that, but what would she take from it? Peter discards that idea. He would just sound like a whining self-involved teenager.

He does the only sensible thing he knows to do.

"We haven't talked about anything," Peter says frankly, looking right at her. "We haven't defined this. We haven't discussed this. Do you want me to assume? Do you want me to just make up in my head what this is, according to me, and expect things from you? That makes you comfortable? _Me_ defining this and deciding what _I_ want it to be?" Peter shrugs, a little more grand with the gesture than he needs to be. "I don't know what this is, Lydia. I have no idea what we're doing. I have no idea what you want from me. All I know is we're attracted to each other on top of everything else, and things happen." It should be funny. It should be downright hilarious for a selfish person like him to think that _her_ decision, _her_ thoughts, _her_ opinions, and _her_ feelings should be the top priority in this particular situation. Not his own. "Neither of us," he adds with finality, "agreed to give that thing a name, so what exactly are you mad at me for? Looking at an undefined shadow and not calling it a square? And now demanding that _I_ give this a name?" He can't stop the helpless tone in his voice. "How is that even fair?"

His words hit like blows, blows she deserves, but blows none the less. "It's not a vision," semantics, she knows. "She's just talking, _was_ talking." Pulling her hand out of her blanket burrito she runs it through her hair and grimaces at the tangles

"Maybe you didn't Peter, all I remember was you were there and things were nice and then you weren't, without saying a word. And it hurt, and maybe I'm conflating the emotional with the physical." No, if they're talking about this then she needs to say everything. "But either way it felt like rejection, like I was still good enough to have sex with but not to cuddle and talk to."

She runs her hand through her hair again, not sure if she should be frustrated, or sad, or what. "I _know_ it's not fair. I just," she gives a gusty exhale, she doesn't want to pick and chose her words, but at the same time she doesn't want to say something she doesn't actually mean. "I'm not exactly used to relationships that go beyond boyfriend-girlfriend, have sex. But I _like_ that we seem to be more than that, even though I have no idea what I'm doing." Granted all relationships were basically the same, it was just all about the level of commitment, and communication.

But out of everything he's said she's avoiding the biggest thing of all, what she wants from him. Although she seems to be doing well enough with this 'adult' thing that she should go for the gold medal. "I want," she wrapped her arms back around her tightly and looked Peter dead in the eye. "I want a partner Peter, someone who will help me and let me help them. Someone who understands how screwed up I am but doesn't care. Who does stupid ridiculous things because they want to make me smile. Someone who l--" she cuts herself off sharply, some old part of her demanding she still hold back.

For the briefest of moments she looks away from Peter, to regain her bearings but then she's looking right at him again. "Someone who I hope would love me." There, she said it. Laid out all her cards and bared her soul to the man who lived in her head but didn't seem to know her at all.

Almost as if in reward Prada leaps onto the bed, trotting over to her and nosing, then licking at her exposed toes.

She bites back a smile as she keeps looking at Peter. "But what do _you_ want?" If they're really going to have this conversation then it needs to go both ways. Though she's not a werewolf to know when he's lying or telling the truth, all she can do is trust that he really means what he says.

If his words were blows to her, then hers are stronger than any beating he ever recalls taking in his life.

His chest hurts, his stomach hurts; his breath freezes for a moment, and then breathing in feels like taking icy water into his lungs. His hands twist, and he stares at an empty void in front of him. What does he even say to that? Where does he even begin?

Peter figures start with the small stuff. For all of his years, he has no experience with the type of relationship she just mentioned.

"I've never had a relationship like that, Lydia," he admits, speaking softly and wringing his hands. "I wouldn't even know where to begin. I've never had a person care whether I stayed afterwards or not, and I knew it felt differently with you, but..." Habit. How does he erase years and years of habit from what few relationships he did have? He doesn't even count them relationships.

"I was afraid," Peter reveals in an even quieter voice. She was honest with him. Why shouldn't he be honest with her? What she said took guts, and as afraid as he may be, he isn't a coward. "The way you are with me... that's never happened before. It was new, so it scared me." There. Honesty. Without feeling like he is laying himself out to dry.

Realizing he is leaning over, Peter rights himself. "I just wanted you safe," he says, "and happy. I thought that was enough."

But it isn't enough, is it? He keeps wanting more.

It's amazing how light Lydia feels after hearing that. It doesn't even matter that she can feel Kira lingering still, not anymore.

She finds herself shrugging off her blankets and holding out a hand. "Peter," she says softly. "Come here."

Well, her asking him to come to her is better than the alternative. If she wasn't herself, he'd expect mockery or laughter after a confession like that.

Peter rises from the chair. The food grows colder with each second; he worries if she's still hungry and that she needs to eat, coupled with the fear of the unknown chasm he's opened up at their feet. The walk to the bed makes his feet heavy, but his hands clench and flex tightly at his sides, despite her raised open one.

Lydia holds it out like it's acceptance, but he can't make the reach back.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter stops at the edge of the bed like he's afraid of her, hand clenching at his sides as if attempting to stop himself from reaching out; like he thinks he doesn't deserve to.

A wan smile on her face Lydia moves, rising up to her knees and shuffling over until she's only a few inches away. Ever so slowly she reaches out again, giving Peter time to refuse.

Her hand on his cheek feels far more personal than any of their previous touches, and she thinks she might be happy as her thumb brushes across his cheekbone.

"Peter," she says softly, as if speaking too loud would break the moment. "I think I might be falling in love with you." What they have right now isn't love, Lydia knows that. But it's all too easy to see how this could become love; and she finds she's okay with that.

Her hand, though cold, feels like a brand against his cheek. He doesn't pull away, but he has to fight every urge to.

"Why would you do that," Peter whispers, shaking his head, as disbelief shines in his eyes, "with someone like me?"

It's not just what he's done to her, but who he is. Relief he can give her. Let her loose her bones until she feels better again. Safety because he'll kill anyone who tries to hurt her. He'll watch over her, a wolf protecting his...

What is she, though, to him?

But love. Peter has thought before that he was capable of it, but he's never been put to the test.

She isn't sure how to respond other than to shrug, letting herself scoot a little closer. "I'm pretty sure the whole point about love is that you don't exactly choose who it happens with Peter."

He's clearly surprised by her admission, but she's not sure how to reassure him. Taking advantage of her current position she ducks in and lightly kisses him, gone the next moment but staying close still.

"But I am, even if you might not love me back." Part of her still thinks of Peter as something far and distant, unreachable; which is probably just how Peter wants it. And it might hurt that he doesn't love her back; however, she thinks she'd be fine with it if he stayed with her none the less.

But she vaguely remembers dreaming his dreams of life before the Hale fire, and yes, Peter said that man didn't exist anymore; but it wasn't hard to see sparks of him in Peter.

She's right, of course, about being unable to choose it. Peter knows that. Despite her admission, though, he won't lie to Lydia to comfort her with things that aren't true.

"I don't know what I'm feeling," he tells her, combing her loose hair behind her ear with a row of fingers and moving closer. Both of his hands take her face in them. His thumbs trace a gentle stroke over her cheekbones. "But I don't want to hurt you." He shakes his head. "I don't want to  _ see  _ you hurt--"

_ It hurts me _ , but he doesn't say that. He bites his lip, and the corner of his eyes crinkle, but he doesn't say that.

Something in her tells her that Peter's holding back some still, but not in a way she needs to worry about. "That's okay Peter, it's not like I'm asking you to marry me. You care, and want to be committed. That's enough for me."

Maybe the rest will come later, or maybe this will be all they have. Either way, it feels better to have talked about it. "Now why don't we eat and just watch cartoons for a while?"

Ducking in she gives him another kiss before going over to his bag and stealing one of his shirts.

She dips in to kiss him and is gone before he can say anything, and Peter watches her grab one of his shirts instead of one of her own. Some part of him likes it, rumbling with a strange sense of self-satisfaction at the sight, and he stands up a little straighter.

Peter reaches out for her arm once she's donned the shirt, gently tugging her back to him and capturing her lips with a kiss. It's not so easy for him to revert back after such a confession, and the kiss, though slow, is a sign of the openness still there.

The kiss is wonderful and Lydia gives herself fully in it, fingers tangling in his hair to scratch behind his ears, sighing softly and teasing his tongue with her own playfully.

It's a little sad when he pulls away, but well, she's certain it won't be their last kiss ever.

"Committed to what?" Peter asks in the aftermath. "And I'm not trying to be funny."

Leaving one hand at his neck she lays her head on his chest and traces her fingers from the other up and down his arm. "I know you're not Peter." She turns slightly and kisses his chest through his shirt. "Committed to me, to  _ us. _ To working together and trying to find happiness. Or at least that's what I think."

"You think we can manage that?" he asks, his hand in her hair because he can't stop touching her. Or at least he doesn't want to, not if he is given free reign without judgment. He holds her to his chest, running his other hand over the loose shirt on her back. "Find happiness?"

Lydia finds herself practically purring, she's always been a physical sort of person, and PDAs, after sex, had been her favorite part about relationships.

"We can damn well try," she responds firmly. 

_ "Lydia... _ " But Kira's easy to ignore when Peter's there, so very alive and  _ there _ with her.

Peter never thought it would take so little to assure him, but from her, so little means so much. And it isn't really that little. She had said, in so many words, that she is beginning to love him. He thinks it's part the high octane of how this began, then leaving, striking out on the road like they are running from something—and they are.

But also, it's part because of the little things, too. Driving all day because he was worried about her. Falling asleep in her lap. Cuddling her at night. Carrying her. He is sure each played a part, even this. Standing here with her, holding her, and he stares off at the wall, hand idly stroking her hair.

"Go sit down on the bed," Peter urges her, giving Lydia a little push when he finally pulls back. "I'll bring the tray over."

A smile dances across Lydia's face as she darts in and kisses Peter's chin before sashaying over to the bed and arranging the pillows so they could comfortably lounge against the headboard.

Her stomach rumbles, reminding her that she is, in fact, hungry. "Smells good," even if it might be cold. Oh well that was what in-room microwaves were for.

He brings the tray over and sits down beside her, feeling hyperaware of everything, but especially of her. The tray goes on the blanket in front of Lydia, though Peter swipes a biscuit off of it to chew on. He holds back the urge to tell her she needs to eat to keep up her strength. He doesn't want to sound like a nagging parent, so he sits in uncharacteristic silence beside her.

The lack of response from Peter bothers her, but she decides to leave it be for now, focusing instead on eating. Prada wiggles his way into the tiny amount of space between herself and Peter and because she feels a little bad for ignoring him so far she offers him a slice of her bacon; which he begins to gobble up greedily.

After a short while though the silence grows to be a bit too much from Lydia, especially considering the conversation they just had. On the TV Wile E Coyote gets blown up again. She leans her shoulder against Peter's arm, "you know. I always felt bad for Wile E. Here he is, an actual genius, and he's getting made a fool of by an idiotic road runner." She can relate, all those years of pretending to be nothing more than a vapid teenager flashing before her eyes.

Peter reaches out and pets Prada after the dog finds the nook between him and Lydia. He has to admit he's beginning to like the little pup. He steals a piece of bacon himself as well.

Peter looks up as Lydia begins to talk, furrowing his brow. "I don't know," he says. "The roadrunner is just as smart. He's just able to defy physics and natural laws, while the coyote is bound to them. Maybe he's fighting with the wrong arsenal."

Magnanimously Lydia doesn't comment on the bacon snatching. "Well if that's the case then I feel even worse for Wile E. He's a genius going against a god that likes to make him suffer." She pops a forkful of eggs into her mouth. In a way it's nice that they're talking about something as banal as cartoons, it gives at least  _ her _ time to regain her footing, let her mind adjust to this change in their dynamic.

"Maybe," Peter partially agrees. "Or maybe Wile E. needs to realize he's taking the wrong approach." Then again, it's a cartoon, and Peter doubts the road runner was ever meant to be caught, but there's something about science meets the supernatural in it. Something they faced on their own back in Beacon Hills.

He scratches Prada's coat, earning him a cozying rub from the little animal and a happy lick.

"I'm glad you came with me," Peter finally says, turning to look at Lydia. There is no one but them here to hear it, so saying it is easy.

She has to wonder if they're still talking about the cartoon, or if it's become some sort of metaphor for their lives in general.

Setting her fork down she weaves her fingers between Peter's own, feeling the brush of Prada's fur against her skin. She squeezes Peter's hand and turning to look at him she smiles. "I'm glad I came too. I'm glad you  _ let _ me come with you. I didn't want to be in Beacon Hills anymore. Not after what the Sheriff said." Picking up Peter's hand she kisses the back of it, not caring if it's usually a masculine gesture. "I want a fresh start, and this is exactly what this is." Her lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "Even if we're still carrying all our old baggage."

She is right about the baggage. It's still there for both of them. Peter squeezes her hand back after she kisses it, a little surprised by the gesture but not put off by it. He is still processing things as well, not entirely sure how long it will take before he is even used to the idea.

But if she'll have him...

"Even the old baggage between us," he says in a low voice. He looks down at their hands. "I never thought it would lead us here."

"I know, right?" If Scott and Stiles, and everyone else, were still alive—she chokes up at that reminder—they'd call her crazy for even spending  _ time _ with Peter; he was the 'bad guy' and to be avoided at all costs. That's why Scott had him put in Eichen.

But to Lydia none of that really matters anymore. The death of all her friends has irrevocably changed her, whether for the better or worse has yet to be seen, and Peter seems to suit this changed her. "But I don't think I'd have it any other way." She takes a bite of butter slathered biscuit. 

"And you trust me?" he asks, chin tilted slightly but not quite looking at her. His thumb rubs along her knuckles. Though, to be fair, would she have come with him and gone this far if she hadn't trusted him?

"Yes," such an easy answer for such a loaded question with so many implications.

Ruining the moment is Prada who leaps from the bed to scratch at the door, a clear indication of what her wants. Lydia sighs.

Prada interrupts the moment and stops Peter from what he might have done next. Both of their attention turns to Prada and the door with Lydia sighing, and Peter pulls his hand away as reality comes sliding back.

"Damn dog," Lydia mutters affectionately as she gets up, stopping by her bag to pull on underwear and a bra. Shoving her feet into her flip flops she returns to the bed and gives Peter a brief, casual kiss. "I'll be right back."

At the door she scoops up Prada, and making sure she had her keycard she left the room.

"Alright," Peter says. As she leaves, he considers it's better than him leaving her here and glances around the room. He gets up, inspecting things out of curiosity after she said she heard Kira's voice, wondering if there is something that might be triggering these reactions until he sees nothing of note. Giving up, Peter takes out the coffee pot to make a drink. Coffee doesn't have much of an effect on him, but a drink is a drink and he doesn't care which one he gets.

Lydia hums to herself as she and Prada leave the hotel.

" _ Lydia... _ " An exasperated sigh leaves Lydia at Kira's voice. " _ Come on, get in the car and go. _ " Well it was either good or bad that apparently her ghosts follow her, literally.

Though this time it's easier to ignore Kira, her conversation with Peter bolsters her and resolves her to their current course.

Once Prada's done she returns to their room, gratefully shucking the flip flops and bra. Retaking her seat next to Peter she snags the last piece of bacon, not caring if it's cold. "Kira followed me outside," she tells him.

Peter looks over at her, shock registering in his eyes. "She followed you out there?" He almost asks why, but that's not a question for Lydia, anyway. It's more for himself and his own ponderings. "Is she here now?"

Burying her face in his shoulder she nods. "Yeah, she's easier to ignore than Stiles was, but she's still here."

Just quiet, clearly waiting.

"She wanted me to take the car and drive back to Beacon Hills," Lydia adds, feeling like that's important. Maybe she'd understand why if she knew more about her banshee powers.

Peter feels himself want to withdraw, but he knows those words are not from Lydia, but a shadow of her dead friend. Instead, he curls an arm around her back.

"If you go back, they will get you," he tells her. "It's a lie. It's not Kira." Then, he wonders something else. "Is she telling you to go back with or without me?" He thinks he already knows the answer to that one.

"I know that," she responds, her tone suggesting she doesn't like his insinuation. Pulling herself away slightly from Peter she moves to straddle his lap, so she can look him in the eye. "Considering she only tells me to go when I'm alone, safe to say without you."

Even though she moves into his lap and his hands automatically place themselves to balance her waist, Peter gives her a look to match her initial tone. "Knowing something and feeling something are two different things," he says, and then his voice softens somewhat. "You might know it's not her, but even a mirage has the ability to make us feel things that are real."

"I know, I'm just," she scrubs a hand over her face. "I want to understand why this is happening." Reaching out she takes his head in her hands. "And I'm not going to listen to them Peter, and I'm going to tell you right now if you find me trying to go back to Beacon Hills, or leave without you,  _ stop me.  _ I might not be in control of myself." Though that begs the question, how could she prove she  _ was _ in control of herself?

He narrows his eyes at her, tilting back his head by lifting his chin. "And how am I supposed to know you aren't leaving because you want to?" Peter knows he's done a lot of unforgivable things for power or survival, but he wouldn't force someone to stay with him. That's a prisoner, not a partner.

But she thinks long and hard over the question. "Everything I can think of whomever's in control of me could possibly do to convince you I'm me," that feels convoluted even to her. "I mean if there's something we say every time one of us goes out to do something what's to stop whomever's in control to say it to you? Granted that implies that they could access my memories and..." She drifts off, blushing a little. "Sorry."

Peter cups her neck, his hand falling down to her shoulder. "There's one thing you can't fake," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the neckline of the shirt draped over her. "One way that I would know you weren't possessed." He looks up at her eyes, meeting them with an open sincerity. "If you ever want to leave, no matter how angry you are or how upset or how calm, just kiss me goodbye. And I'm not talking passion. Or lust." His hand falls to her back. "Kiss me with all the love you might have felt for me one day had it been possible, and then lie to me. Tell me the exact opposite of however you feel in regards to me straight to my face while meeting my eyes. Then I'll know the truth, and I'll know what to do."

It sounds complicated, but it's not. Someone who isn't Lydia couldn't fake that. Not to the extent of which he is asking. He would know instantly if it was Lydia or not. Peter lets out a sigh, breaking the tension in the air. "If you don't do that before you leave or you do it and fail," he says lightly, "I'll assume you're possessed and drag you back."

His words shake her, but she nods. "I, well I guess I  _ can't _ do that," she manages a wan smile. "But I agree with the idea."

He fears he has been too blunt or too forward with her. Maybe what he mentioned is too harsh, and Lydia is unnerved by it, but she stays close and he remains calm as if he's unaffected. "Can't do what, exactly?" Peter inquires lazily. His hand brushes through her hair

"Well saying 'I can do that' when talking about kissing you like I'm head over heels in love with you, saying I hate you, then leaving just doesn't sound right." She runs her fingers through the soft hair on his arm, closing her eyes and giving a pleased hum when he starts running his fingers through her hair; she'd always liked it when her boyfriends played with it absently, it seems the same goes for Significant Others—there really isn't a better term for what Peter is to her.

"Think about it this way," Peter says, still keeping his tone light. "If you realize this is all one big mistake and you really do still hate me, then we can break this off on a peaceful note for both of us. Despite whatever you say that's good, I'll know the truth. I won't stop you. But it would be a nice dream. If the opposite happens, maybe it's fixable." He brings his fingers to her scalp, lightly swirling them beneath her hair. "If I told you to lie to me and you said you hated me with every fiber of your being and you can't stand another second of looking at my face, do you think I would just let you walk away without saying anything? Without trying to talk to you?" He tilts his head until his nose brushes her hair.

If he had asked her that question before everything that had happened in the past week she would have called him, well, crazy. Yes there was clearly a tension between them, but she hadn't ever once thought it could be more than UST and angry biting words. "I know you wouldn't," not anymore at least; she leans cat-like into the touch.

"I like to argue," Peter admits, "especially when people around me are angry." He lets out a small sigh. "It's a bad habit."

"You arguing," she pulls away from him to give an 'incredulous' stare. "Perish the thought. I mean it's not as if you and I argued over what constituted appropriate behavior when looming over someone in their backyard..." And it's a testament to how far they've come that the memory of that night doesn't fill her with dread, or hurt; well maybe still a little hurt, but not the gaping betrayal she'd walked around with for the months after he'd come back. Realizing that the one person who'd actually seemed to care about her didn't really exist.

She shakes her head, trying to banish that line of thought, dwelling in the past wasn't going to do either of them good. She moves again, so she's sitting across his lap and can rest her head on his shoulder and watch the cartoons still playing in the background, Tom and Jerry now, and snuggles close. "At least Kira's not talking while I'm with you," which feels important, but for Lydia she's dealt with too much today already, it's time for her to give her mind a rest and just veg for an hour or so.

"She doesn't talk when I'm in the room?" It seems important, though he doesn't know why.

"Yeah, she's silent as the grave. But I can still feel her, barely. Kind of like static. But she hasn't shown herself like Stiles did." She shudders at the memory, hoping that she never sees her friend like that again.  

He thinks about why their power is stronger when he isn't there. Why it's background noise when he is. "You can use me as a shield and keep me close if that helps," Peter suggests, not really minding the intertwining of space. He has already been in that situation with her since they escaped Eichen. He's getting used to it now.

She finds herself smiling at the suggestion. "I don't know," she teases. "Aren't you afraid of becoming one of those couples that do  _ everything _ together, I could get us matchy-matchy sweaters..." Her smile turns into a grin which she tries to hide against his neck.

He makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. "I don't think I would ever grow tired of your company," he says. "After all, you're talking about the man who couldn't leave his own nephew alone. I think it was Derek who grew tired of me..."

It sounds like a joke. It partially is, and it partially isn't, though.

She can't exactly comment on the Derek stuff, it's not as if she and he interacted beyond the occasional meeting; she didn't know him well enough to comment on whether or not Peter's words were actually true. "Well I draw the line at the bathroom, showering and stuff like that's alright. But I want to use the toilet in peace."

He can't help the smirk that comes to his face at her reply about using the toilet in peace. "I can't say that's something I will mourn the loss of," he teases, but he sobers up a little, enjoying the close and relaxing physical comfort. It not being something he is accustomed to, after all; it's still new, but he longs for it. His hand still plays with her hair. "You know," Peter says carefully, "I don't remember all of that. Bits and pieces, but...it's like my mind was scattered across two realities. It's more clear towards the end than the beginning. For me, anyway."

She blinks, surprised by that. Having been more than certain Peter had plotted out every move he'd made.

"I've tried to forget most of it, but..." She bites her bottom lip, even after everything still hesitant to admit this. "I liked it when you came to me as a teenager," even if it was an unintended lie. "It felt like the worst betrayal ever to find out him and the man who attacked me were one and the same." It's a deliberate choice not to say Peter's name in that statement. In Peter's own words he hadn't exactly been himself at the time, then again it could be said he hadn't been 'himself' since before the fire. But in her own way it's demonstrating she doesn't see them as the same person.

The hand she's been keeping on her lap finally rises up, moving to weave into his hair, nails scratching slightly. "So, do we want to stay here all day? Or go and explore?" She finds herself yawning, then huffs quietly. "Either way I might need a nap first." If she's feeling slightly emotionally exhausted she can't imagine how Peter's feeling.

"I remember some of it," he answers quietly after a moment of pause, "but it's like remembering a dream. Things happen in dreams you don't control, but you react to them sometimes in ways you can control, and then there's fear and reacting because of it. I remember being angry at first, but also scared. I couldn't control the landscape anymore than you." He remembers the scent of freshly cut grass under flooding lights, but says nothing about it. He remembers wanting to make someone pay, but she was the only one within his grasp.

Peter combs his fingertips along her scalp, not apologizing out loud but feeling that way given the conversation. "We can explore," he says near her ear. "After you nap." He may nap as well. Maybe after she falls asleep and everything is quiet.

Lydia lets her eyes flutter closed and snuggles closer to him; happily taking in his warmth. "Alright," she says sleepily. "But I think you get to pick the place this time." Even if it had been impulse more than anything she'd 'chosen' the car attraction.

If he responds she doesn't hear it, quickly slipping into sleep; distantly hoping she doesn't have any nightmares.

He slouches against the headboard, taking Lydia with him and letting her lie against him. He isn't sure what is around this area, but if nothing else, they could go for a walk or get something to eat at a local place.

"I'll think of something," Peter tells her absently, still playing with her hair as she falls asleep in his embrace. Tiredness washes over his brain not long after, and he finds his eyes drifting as well.

Before long, he falls into sleep, too.


	9. Chapter 9

Lydia wakes, feeling warm and safe, well warm except for a spot on her elbow. Opening her eye's she's met with the broad expanse of Peter's chest, but turning her head enough to look down she sees Prada pressing his face into her arm. "MMm'rada?" She blinks sleepily at him a few times.

Prada yaps at her then bounds off the bed to lurk by his food bowl.  _ Oh _ , she can't actually remember giving him any food and water beyond a strip of bacon and feeling a little bad for him she untangles herself from Peter with an unhappy groan and wobbles her way over to take care of him.

As a light sleeper, Peter feels Lydia move and wakes up himself. He glances around the room and gets up, sliding off the edge of the bed.

His first instinct is the bathroom, and he calls out before he gets in, "Pack up, and we can head into the city and see what's here." He doubted, after all, that the hotel had anything beyond beds and a possible pool.

"Alright," she calls out, humming to herself as she folds up their clothes, though she leaves a change out for herself for after she showers. Overall she feels refreshed, the nap having done wonders for her, and with no sense of Kira nearby it feels as usual.

Once he exits the bathroom to give her a chance to go in, Peter almost considers going down to the car with his bag, but scraps that idea. If he leaves her alone, Kira or someone else might come back again.

Lydia smiles at Peter as she passes him into the bathroom, where it feels like she takes the quickest shower of her life; though there's a moment where she nearly calls Peter in so they could try shower sex, but she just bites it back instead grinning to herself all the while. When she climbs out she towels off and dresses. Instead of bothering with the mediocre hair dryer she braids her hair and pins it up.

She keeps her makeup simple, then packs it all away.

So for entertainment, he takes out his laptop and sits on the bed with it while Lydia showers.

When she leaves the bathroom she finds Peter on his laptop. "What're you doing?" She asks as she tucks her makeup bag away.

"Looking up local attractions," he answers, tilting his head up to look at her. "Mountains, mountains, and more mountains. But here's a zoo on a mountain, so that's new."

Though he has to wonder if the animals would like him or hate him. Luckily, there's a cage between him and them.

She laughs at his dry tone and finishing zipping up her bag goes over and slots herself against him. "I think I'll pass on the zoo, I'd rather not see anymore cages, even if we're outside them." The less memories of Eichen she recalls, the better.

Peter closes the laptop after powering it off and turns to look at her. "I'm not much of a sight-seeing person," he admits. "I like to lay around and be lazy when I don't have anything to do." The joke comes out dry, but it's surprisingly truthful.

She gives a huff of laughter. "Lazy dog," she teases lightly. On an impulse rising up a tad and kissing his cheek. "We could go to an art museum, lots of benches to sit and be lazy on."

He would respond with another joke, but every time she gives him a small kiss it surprises him. A short affectionate moment, derailing his thoughts. If she keeps this up, he won't be able to control where his feelings go.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Peter asks. He is sure she'll know what he means.

She frowns at the question. "What? Kissing you?" Her nose wrinkles as she thinks about it and shrugs. "I've always been physical with my boyfriends, it just feels...normal. Do you not like it?" After all the just had a huge conversation this morning about things like this; and if he doesn't like it she'll stop.

Peter raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "No, I didn't say that." It's...strange, to say the least, since he isn't used to physical affection, but maybe he'll get used to it. Something else stops him in his tracks, too. Did she just call him her boyfriend? Slowly, he shakes his head again and turns away, a strange sense of anxiety creeping up on him like before. "I don't know why I asked that—but hey," he adds, voice turning chipper, "let's go before they charge us another night."

Quickly, Peter slides off the bed, tucks away his laptop into the duffle, and scoops it up.

He says yes, but, well, Lydia might not be a werewolf, but she's good with body language and something's set Peter off. However, she decides to hold off for now because he's right about the hotel room; she’ll ask him about it in the car.

She scoops up her own bag and Prada, who's been snoozing on a chair. "You're a lazy dog too," she chides as she follows Peter out the door.

"He can't be any lazier than me," Peter calls over his shoulder, smirking on the way out. He leads the way to his vehicle, places his duffle in the backseat, and unlocks the doors before climbing in and waiting on Lydia and Prada.

Despite her apprehension at Peter's earlier reaction, a smile crosses her face at Peter's comment. She squeezes past Peter and throws in her own bag, wondering when she's going to have to crack open her second suitcase to get clean clothes—or they're going to have to hit a laundromat.

Keeping Prada in her arms she climbs into the passenger seat and makes sure to buckle up. Stomach roiling a little from nerves she looks at Peter. "Did I say something that bothered you?" Part of her is wondering how hard it's going to be to have conversations like this all the time—but she hopes only to start with. She'd like to think that as time went on the conversations would grow fewer and fewer.

Peter thinks back to the room, to her mention of boyfriends and what felt normal, and turns to her with a look that's completely at ease. "No," he answers just as easily, not quite smiling but exuding the feeling behind one. In many ways it feels like their world has respectively come to an end, and they're on this road alone right now. Just the two of them. Well, and her dog.

It's just them, and after everything since Eichen, should he really be surprised if they actually form a bond again?

But he doesn't want to make a big deal over something essentially inconsequential, so he doesn't say yes. So far, nothing she has done has even come remotely close to annoying him or making him feel trapped. If anything, he feels better with her constantly around. It was always something he needed. Always something he wanted, but never something he ever really had with anyone but Derek. And half of the time, Derek couldn't stand him.

Lydia is the opposite, so Peter finally smiles at her. She still holds Prada in her arms almost like a shield of protection against whatever he might say. Peter doesn't know what possesses him, but he decides he's going to try for a day of doing what he would like to do without thinking of the consequences, so he reaches out for one of her hands and leans over, bringing it to his lips to kiss it and see how much of a reaction it gets out of her. "You're going to get sick of me," Peter tells her very seriously, looking Lydia straight in the eyes, but then he turns to Prada and gives the dog his own version of puppy eyes. "But this one's gonna love me forever," he says.

Some part of her frowns at Peter's response, telling her it's both a truth and a lie. But she's going to have to trust Peter's being honest with her. The bridge they're building has to start from  _ something _ and a foundation's better to start with than the bridge itself.

Despite the response when Peter smiles at her it's actually breathtaking. Sweet and full of meanings she doesn't quite know yet.

And when he kisses her hand? Well, she finds herself blushing because she'd pretty sure no one's done that to her before. She meets his gaze as he looks at her over her wrist, his breath ghosting across the back of her hand.

She finds herself laughing at he speaks to Prada. "I don't know," she finally responds slyly. "He'll turn on you quick if you don't feed him." She smiles, then lets it fall a little. "But seriously Peter. I dated  _ Jackson _ for three years, and half the time I couldn't stand him." She ducks down managing to kiss the side of his hand more than the back of it. "I think we'll muddle through. I mean, you're already miles ahead of him considering you're far more intelligent." Never again, she swears, is she going to play the idiot.

"Hmm," Peter says, meeting her eyes again without sitting upright, "compliments so soon. Careful, I have an overinflated ego as it is." His thumb, however, strokes her fingers lightly. "But I must say, coming from you, it's humbling. I'm intelligent, but you're one of a kind."

It's not meant to be something charming; it's just how he views her.

He lets go of her hand and grabs his keys. "Feeding him, I can manage. That's easy." Cranking the car, Peter puts his hands on the wheel. "Where to?"

A huff of laughter leaves her and she rolls her eyes. "Ego? You? Say it isn't so."

Her cheeks, however, darken with pleasure at his words; sure everyone else had acknowledge her own intelligence, but sometimes it'd felt like they only did it when it benefited them.

But at his question she arches an eyebrow. "I thought you were the one who was supposed to chose this time?"

"Well," he adds cheekily as a joke, "you didn't like my suggestion for the mountainside zoo, so..." Peter pulls out of the parking lot, keeping his eyes on the road. "How about we keep it simple and not wear ourselves out more? An outdoor cafe can be relaxing, especially if they have music."

Prada wiggles in her lap and she scratches under his chin to calm him. "I think I'd like that, so long as the music isn't White Guy with Acoustic Guitar." She finds herself smiling at the joke, even if Peter won't get it.

"I prefer female vocalists," Peter announces. "More soothing to listen to."

He drives until they find downtown, which is full of shops and restaurants. Peter spots one with outdoor seating and pulls up to it, parking the car and glancing over at Prada. "See? He won't feel left out and have to stay in the car."

For some reason she finds herself shaking her head and smiling. "Clearly you think of everything," yet another tease, she feels like she's on a roll.

"Do you want to go in and order or will I?" She asks as she climbs out of the car, Prada in one arm as she fishes out his leash with the other.

"We can both go in," Peter says, getting out of the car as well. "Considering I have no idea what you like to eat." He shoots a pointed look her way from across the sidewalk.

"Humph, make sense why don't you," their usual banter feels strange without the usual acid bite she associates with it. Her mind skitters away from that, those memories too tied up with the pack.

The inside of the coffee shop is nice, with little seating areas full of overstuffed chairs. The barista at the counter is browsing on her phone for lack of anything to better to do. Lydia peers at the pastry cabinet with interest. Prada attempts to sniff at them, but the glass confounds him. "Too many choices," she tells Peter with a put upon sigh.

"Well, I'm actually hungry," Peter says, ordering from the small lunch menu on the board instead of looking at the snack bar. When he finishes and Lydia is no closer to a decision, he pulls away from the counter and walks up to her side, lowering his voice to keep the conversation between them. "Order whatever you feel like," he tells her, his hand ghosting over her back. "Or if you're not hungry, that's fine too."

Feeling like she's come to a decision she rises up. "I'll have a vanilla tarragon scone, with a sixteen ounce chai latte, and three of those bacon dog bones please." She drifts back to Peter's side, half feeling like if she gets to far from him it'll draw another ghost to her; she can deal with it when it's the two of them, but in public? She'd rather not chance it period. "Do we want to sit inside or outside?"

"Outside," he replies, but his eyes catch a glass door towards the back, a brick wall with flower pots and the sight of empty tables and chairs there, too. "People or no people?" he asks, gesturing to the back seating area.

Her eyes follow Peter's path and she sees the back patio. After thinking about it for a few moments she answers. "People." It means she’ll have to keep Prada on his leash, but she's always liked people watching and it might give them a chance to talk about things other than themselves and their situation; not that she's  _ tired  _ of talking about it, just that a short break would be nice.

When the barista calls out their order Lydia picks up her things and heads through the front door, picking out one of the tables that has an umbrella, offering at least a little relief from the sun. All the nearby trees help too.

Sitting down she ties Prada's leash to the chair's arm and offers him one of the dog treats.

He sits down across from her, and without waiting for some kind of conversation, immediately goes to eating. Peter watches Lydia feed Prada, though. For a small and fluffy dog, Peter likes him.

After a few moments of silence, he speaks up. "You know, I've always wondered about people I see in public. It's easy to ponder what their story is." He points at a middle-aged couple a few tables across from them, dressed too warm for the weather and arguing quietly over papers. "Take them for example. What do you think their story is?"

Lydia graciously accepts Prada's doggy kisses before wiping her fingers on a napkin and picking up her chai, hiding her smile at Peter's question behind the rim. "They're from Texas," she answers before taking a sip, enjoying the spicy flavors on her tongue. "She thought they were going to Chicago, he thought they were going to Toronto."

She breaks off a chunk of her scone and pops it into her mouth, it's a combination she's never tried before and she finds she likes the savory-sweet taste of it. "What about them?" She points at two younger women and a man, all dressed up in find punk form, carrying signs she and Peter can't read from their current position.

"Concert," Peter answers easily. He lifts his eyebrows a moment later. "Or a protest. Sometimes I can't tell the difference anymore." The punk-style tells him music, and the signs could easily be for holding up at a concert. He takes another bite of the large sandwich he ordered, stacked mostly with meat, and nods his head in a new direction towards a group of stoic-looking girls, five of them altogether, around Lydia's age. All of them paying more attention to their phones than anything around them. They are all sitting up too straight and poised, faces giving nothing away. "Robots," Peter says before giving Lydia a chance to answer.

Lydia takes another sip of her drink as she follows Peter's gaze to see the girls. She thinks it a little unfair that he calls them robots though. "They're arguing with each other," she tells him, breaking off a chunk of another biscuit and giving it to Prada. If there's anything she knows as well as math it's other teenage girls. "Their shoulders are too tense and they're typing harder than they need to. They're in too public a place, so they're having some privacy the only way they know how." Not that she'd be able to tell him  _ what _ they're arguing over.

"Really?" He stares a little longer, wondering if he should believe her. But if there's one thing Lydia knows better than him, it's... well, probably multiple things, to be fair. "I thought they were ignoring each other in favor of technology and social media."

She shakes her head as she finishes her bite of scone. "See the way they're leaning away from each other? If they were just browsing social media they'd be hunched together, so they could share something interesting when they found it. They're leaning away because they're trying to get as far away as they can without moving."

Reaching over she steals a potato chip from his plate. 

"Considering I don't use social media," he offers, "I'll take your word on it." Peter watches her snatch the potato chip and raises his eyes to her. "I hope you're paying me back for that."

She gives him a cheeky grin, before taking another bite out of her own scone. "Maayybe," she replies. While she likes the fact they had a very serious talk this morning about expectations and their relationship, she's also glad they've moved back a little into playful teasing and flirting.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he glances around them at the crowd. "I wonder what they think our story is," Peter says, his fingers itching to touch hers and his desires cropping up at the most inopportune of times.

Her smile turns softer, though it's once again hidden by the rim of her mug. "I think," she takes a sip. "We'd have to become other people to find that out, and despite a lot of things I'm happy to be myself."

Setting her mug down she offers Prada the last of his second biscuit. 

"Where's the fun in that answer?" Peter asks, leaning onto the table with his forearms. He gives her an inquisitive look. "Not even gonna make a guess?"

She huffs and moves her leg to lightly kick him under the table. "Alright," she huffs, deciding to humor him. "A couple out shopping," she gives Peter a critical look. "Everyone probably thinks you’re my uncle at best, sugar daddy at worst." The was an age gap between them, but on the other hand she was of a height where people had trouble gauging her age and tended to skew her younger then she actually was. Which will probably be wonderful when she's older, but is only annoying at the moment.

She pops another chunk of her scone into her mouth and arches a challenging eyebrow.

His small smile extends into a smirk, and he reaches under the table. There is only just enough distance between them; it's not a wide table, after all, and Peter places a hand on the side of her knee, running it up her thigh.

"We can dispel that uncle idea," he offers, arching an eyebrow back. They're in public. He should be a little more decent, but at least he doesn't lean into her for a kiss as well, leaving that decision up to Lydia. "But if we really want to put a good spin on it, you could sit in my lap. That would give them one hell of a story."

She shivers at the touch, loving the feel of it, but wondering how far they can push it before they have to start worrying about public indecency charges.

Still she leans in, "I don't know," she breathes. "If I sit on your lap I might not be able to stop myself."

That is far from the wrong answer.

Peter drags his nails back down her thigh, blunt though they are, and wraps his fingers around her knee, tugging her towards him. "I'll keep you in check," he breathes back, knowing how it sounds. His hand shifts to the inside of her thigh. "Depending on whether you're good or bad, we'll deal with it accordingly later." He lets out a shaky breath despite himself. "After all, if the latter, it would be unseemly to...punish you in public."

Lydia bites her bottom lip, hard; to keep herself from moaning. But she still squirms, trying to satisfy some of her body's demands. Not that it works. "And what if I don't sit on your lap?" She tastes blood when she speaks.

Peter has to bite his own lip in lieu of what happens next. He pulls back from her, sitting up straight, and draws his hand away. Acting completely unaffected, he says, "Then I will respect your decision." He lifts his gaze to hers, making eye contact. "But it won't be as fun," he adds pointedly.

Under the table Lydia hooks one of her legs around Peter's; above the table she pouts as she traces a finger around the rim of her mug. Slowly she licks her lips, collecting what's hopefully the last of the blood. "What? No punishment for not doing as you say?"

She's playing a dangerous game, she knows. After all, if they're going to get into the more 'out there' stuff like D/s, then they need to do a  _ lot  _ more talking. But she feels that Peter understands right now it's only a game. A game that might end in sex in an alley for all she knows, but it's a risk she's willing to take to enjoy herself.

He likes this teasing in public. The tension can build, but there is nothing they can do about it. He quirks an eyebrow again. "Only if you want it," Peter offers carefully, gauging her reaction. "It should be mutually beneficial, after all."

He has been testing the waters with her. Trying, teasing, and suggesting things to see if she likes them or is at least open to them, but it wouldn't be the end of the world if she isn't. Right now, it's just for play. A word game more than anything. Verbal teasing, to see how far he can go.

Lydia arches her eyebrow, banking off her arousal to the side for moment. "Fairly certain that I'm not supposed to 'want' a punishment," she teases. Though she knows full well that's not really how it works. She glides her leg up a little further. "Isn't the the point?"

She takes a slow slip of her chai, savoring it while it's still warm.

Peter feels the smirk growing. "No," he says, shaking his head slowly, "that's not the point at all."

Because she can't help herself Lydia sets down her mug and leans over the table, wanting to kiss that wonderfully smug smirk right off his face.

When she pulls away she gives him a smirk of her own, then picks up her mug again, drinking from it to stop herself from saying 'why don't you show me then', despite how much she'd probably enjoy the outcome.

When she feels like she's not going to ask Peter to fuck her over the table anymore she asks instead: "what do  _ you _ think they see?"

He glances over the crowd's faces, not seeing anyone looking directly at them but he's sure someone has looked by now.

"You're young and beautiful, with a toy dog," he says, slowly bringing his eyes back to her, "so you have money and a good home. I'm also well-dressed but considerably older." Peter takes a drink, his smile coming back to him as he sets down his cup. "I met you online, and we're seeing each other. Your parents don't approve, but you do what you like."

A laugh leaves her, high and bright. "I never thought you would be more charitable towards people than me Peter." She smiles as she takes another bite of her scone. Swallowing she continues, "still I think I'm fine with either one." Her smile turns more personal. "I know the truth after all," even if it's a stranger one than most would conceive.

A cool spot on the calf not still wrapped around Peter's has her looks down and rolling her eyes fondly at Prada's begging. "Far too easy on the both of you," she gripes as she feeds him his last biscuit.

"Aw, c'mon," Peter says, defending Prada. "He just wants attention." He and the dog have that in common. "And food." That, too.

She huffs again, "I'm fairly certain you want a bit more than that." She rubs their knees together. And seeing no reason not to she scoops Prada up onto her lap, absentmindedly scratching him under his chin. "Though to be fair it's more fun giving you attention."

"I can't tell if you're talking to the dog or to me." Peter finds a note of irony in that, raising his eyebrows. "I hope giving me attention is more fun, or I've greatly overestimated my capabilities." What an embarrassment that would be, losing to a dog.

Lydia sniggers, "of course you." She rolls her eyes. "Last time I checked bestiality was a crime." She moves her hand to scratch behind Prada's ear. "Though I don't quite think that covers werewolves," she teases lightly, finishing off her scone.

Peter has to bite down on his lip in an attempt to suppress a grin. "Well, I meant whether petting him like this," he gestures at Lydia's affection for Prada, "was more preferable to other things with me, but duly noted. I also can have claws, fangs, glowing eyes, and more whenever you're into that sort of thing."

It's a playful tease yet again, but one he is more than willing to accommodate for during extracurricular activities.

Her cheeks flush and she attempts to not squirm, but only half-succeeds; it had always been a bit of a rush with Aiden when he didn't bother to 'hide' what he was, she expects with the quality of sex she and Peter are having it will be even better. "I just might. Though really, on the petting front you and I haven't done much of that, so really I can't make an accurate comparison." Sure there's been a little after sex, but really last night had been the first time she'd done it to Peter.

Peter falters, his grin fading. "What do you mean?" Only it hits him a few seconds too late and after he's already said it. Cuddling. She means cuddling.

From the way his expression falls she doesn't need to clarify, but she can't help but stiffen at the question. But she forces herself to breath for a few moments before replying, not jumping to conclusions will make this go much better.

"Do you not like cuddling?" He hasn't protested yet when they've done it; or maybe it's because they see cuddling differently. "Or is this a definition thing?"

He thought she meant something like  _ petting  _ petting at first, as in foreplay, thinking they had done plenty of that by now. He definitely didn't intend to steer the conversation in this direction. "I thought you meant a different kind of petting, and I was just about to balk in protest at your unsatisfactory response." The mirth returns to his face and eyes. "But now that you've clarified we're talking about cuddling, I feel a little better."

He noticed her stiffness, and hopes his response is enough to erase it. Peter leans back in his chair. "I don't know. I thought I offered an opportunity some moments ago that could have led to cuddling...but you've decided to stay all the way over there."

He doesn't dislike the closeness, the touching, but outside of occasionally falling asleep together and once or twice after sex or to calm each other down, it's not something they've really done.

She gave a deft nod, "good." And she relaxed as well, misplaced insecurity dying away.

But she snorts in amusement as his next words, "I fairly certain your words were implying quite a bit more than cuddling."  Still, his pout is working about as well on her as Prada's puppy eyes do and she finds herself softening.

Deliberately she moves Prada from her lap to the ground and stands up. It barely takes her a second to move from her chair to his lap, but it feels longer. She sits, adjusting her skirt so she's not accidentally flashing anyone, and leaning in just that bit further kisses Peter again, soft and languorous. "Better?" She asks softly.

Peter hums into the kiss, sliding his hand up the side of her face and gently touching her hair. When she pulls away, he opens his eyes lazily to look at her.

"Yes," he says softly, placing one arm around her waist while the other hand plays with her hair. "My words may have implied more than cuddling, but they don't have to include it if you don't want them to."

She gives him a sweet smile, the darts in to lay a peck on his nose. "I know," she says, settling herself more comfortably against him. One of her hands drifting up his neck to scratch at his scalp.

Her nails scratch with a tingle, and Peter closes his eyes, nudging into the curve beneath her chin, above her chest. "If you know, why are you so hesitant?" There's a pause. "Or are you just stubborn?"

She smiles into his hair, laying a soft kiss there. "Stubborn," she admits. "I had to be...with Jackson and Aiden." She's hesitant to bring them up—never talk about your exes and all that—but, well, Peter's had the displeasure of knowing them too. "It might be a hard habit to unlearn. Though really," she scratches a little harder, right behind his ear. "I might do it on purpose," her voice goes sultry. "Just to goad you on." She likes it, from time to time, when she gets her lover to 'snap' and just take her. It's a little power-play-y, but still one she enjoys too much to stop.

Peter hears her, but he figures from the way she draws the conversation away from their sexual flirting that she wants to talk about more than just that, so he tries to entertain the idea. "Why did you have to be stubborn with Jackson and Aiden?" he asks against her neck, no traces of jealousy or anger. The past is the past, but if he wants to get to know her better, it's as good a place as any to start.

She gives a little start, not expecting the question. Still, it's easy enough to answer. "They thought they could get what they wanted whenever they wanted; and they certainly didn't like hearing 'no'." They never forced her into sex, but they certainly tried to make her feel bad for refusing them.

And at the start, at least, with Jackson it had worked; she hadn't known better after all. But she did now, and that at least was one area where she wouldn't budge. "So I guess we're going to have to figure out a way to differentiate between a 'no' and 'I'm playing hard to get because I enjoy it'." She gives a little internal sigh, and here she'd thought the serious talking was over with. She stops scratching to comb her fingers through his hair; thinking about how this would be so much more comfortable on a couch, or a bigger chair. Not that they have either of those in abundance at the moment.

Peter looks up at her, mulling over her words as she combs her fingers through his hair. "Contrary to popular male-driven belief, I don't see sex as a need that has to be fulfilled, Lydia. It's a want. I don't have to have it." He shrugs his shoulders, letting his fingers graze down her neck to her collarbone. "It's a luxury, a nice thing people can share in private for whatever reasons make them happy or satisfy them." His hand falls lower, maintaining a slim line of decency in public as he just barely curves it around her breast through the fabric of her shirt. "And despite my reputation for games and ploys," Peter adds, his hand pausing on her side as he resumes direct eye contact again, "I prefer complete honesty. Just say no. If we both know what we want and we want it now, then let's say we're going to play a game and play it. But if not, just say so." He tilts his head at her, genuine honesty shining through his eyes. "Sound reasonable?"

She shivers at the delicious tease his touch is, but inside she's pleased to hear the words. Not that she expected any different from Peter, it's nice to hear them anyways.

"Yes," it doesn't come out as steady as she'd like it too, but that's really all Peter's fault she's sure. She leans back in, ostensibly to nibble on his ear, but she catches sight of the barista as she moves and can't help but giggle a little. "The barista's a bit of a voyeur I think." Not that Lydia's sure she's an exhibitionist. 

Her breath on his ear causes him to shiver, eyelids fluttering. "Well, then, give her something to stare at," he murmurs back. "But nothing that will get us kicked out for indecency." He pauses, opening his eyes. "Unless you're ready to go, we can leave with a bang." Figuratively speaking, of course. He has his limits.

She finds herself laughing in his ear, "well it wouldn't be  _ too _ much of a bang considering we'd have to stop and untie Prada. Would kind of ruin the whole thing." It's easy enough to wiggle closer, pressing her side against his chest. "But if you insist..." she teases lightly before setting her teeth in his ear, giving it a sharp tug before letting go and moving down his neck, leaving a trail of lipstick hickeys down his artery.

When she reaches the crook of her neck she sets her teeth into the skin there and sucks hard, not caring that by the time she stops the hickey will already be healing. Letting go she licks a second path up his neck and noses at his jawline. "How's that?" She murmurs as she nibbles at his jaw.

He groans, tilting his head back far enough to give her all the access she needs. He doesn't care that people are nearby, possibly watching them. It spikes his blood further, but then she's done too soon and his skin feels hot all over.

"I may have trouble standing up," Peter murmurs, his hand caressing low on her back with feather light touches, "and not from weak legs."

She laughs again, but this time in pleasurable satisfaction. "Well I'd say I aim to please, but I might be lying and lying would get me punished wouldn't it?" She asks sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes exaggeratedly. Granted she  _ really  _ wants sex right now, though their only real option is the car, and she's not sure how she feels about Prada being  _ that _ close to them while they have sex.

But she must really be a bad girl, because despite those thoughts she squirms purposefully in Peter's lap, enjoying the press of his cock against her hip.

Peter laughs, a small laugh, but all the same. "I can't answer that the way I want to in public." He doesn't think the baristas or manager would appreciate him slapping her ass for everyone to see.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, though, disappointed for just a moment until Lydia squirms purposefully. His hand squeezes her thigh. "You're going to get me in trouble," he says, mind flitting briefly to the no doubt clean public restrooms here, but he doesn't entertain the idea that Lydia herself would enjoy getting fucked on a sink counter.

"I'm fairly certain if there was anything close to thought police the both of us would be in trouble." With a sigh she rests the side of her head against his shoulder. "Maybe we should have sat in that patio, at least there we could use our hands." 

Given an idea, Peter urges her gently off his lap but stands up close to her, reaching down and untying Prada. "Stay close to me," he says, purposefully bumping into Lydia, and he leads the way through the cafe to the back patio with her in front of him.

She gave him the idea, and, well, he isn't against a little change of scenery.

Having an idea of what he's got planned Lydia's body thrums with anticipation and arousal, especially when his cock bumps against her when he urges her forward.

The back patio is empty, and Peter picks a corner half-hidden by a trellis covered in vines in case anyone walks in, ties Prada to it, and draws Lydia into his lap as he sits in one of the chairs. His hand is immediately behind her neck, pulling her against his lips for a quick kiss, the other slipping underneath her skirt. "Why settle for half measures," he says against her mouth, pressing his fingers into her panties and rubbing her as he captures her lips in another kiss deeper than before.

She feels sopping wet by the time she's on his lap again, straddling him this time however, giving them both easier access.

And she's grateful that he kisses her at the same time his fingers slide in, because otherwise her moan would have attracted attention they didn't want. Still, the fact they're still in public has her pressing more against Peter, demanding satisfaction.

Her own hands fumble with his belt and pants, finally freeing him she wraps a firm hand around him and squeezes.

He moans as her hand grasps him, not releasing Lydia from the kiss and moving aside her panties to work his fingers inside her and press his palm against her clit. He pulls away from her mouth long enough to say, "We'll have to make this quick." Using his other hand, he lets go of her neck to guide her hand on his cock towards the end instead of the base. "Hard and fast," he whispers. "Wet is better."

"Fuck," she hisses as his palm hits her clit, sending off fireworks in her brain as she orgasms. "Wet enough for you?" She pants out between kisses.

On second thought, he takes her hand and lifts it to his mouth, dragging his tongue along her palm and fingers, enjoying the taste of her flesh and leaving a trail of saliva, before placing her hand back on him. His thumb pushes hers across his leaking tip, hips jerking slightly in response. Peter pulls her back into a kiss, focusing on working his fingers inside of her, pumping them faster and adding more pressure.

She gives an unhappy whimper when he pulls her hand away, but it quickly turns into a hiss when he starts licking her palm, to distract herself from making more sound she assaults his neck again, giving him hickeys that vanish as soon as she makes them.

And then he's even pulling her away from that, kissing her again as he moves both their hands over him. "Fuck," she says again, this time more of a demand than exclamation.

Peter smiles at her retort, but it's cut off with a sudden moan as he tips his head back. "I meant for me," he manages to tell her, thinking if anyone gets them caught, it's going to be him. "Please, Lydia—"

A laugh stutters out of her, as her forehead falls against his shoulder, her hand sliding away from his to begin sliding up and down his shaft. "What do you want?" She whispers against his neck.

Visuals. The sensation of her naked body against his, but he can't have either of those right now. His mind scrambles for an answer. "Talk to me," he breathes out. "Dirty. Breathless, moaning. Fuck, anything. Surprise me. I like surprises."

She drags her nose up his throat to his ear, taking the lobe in her mouth for a second before letting go. She smiles as she begins to talk. "You know what I want you to do when we finally move into a house?" It's a rhetorical question of course, so she continues before he can answer; her hand continuing its motions, tightening and releasing rhythmically. "I want you to chase me, and I'll run, because I'll be 'terrified'. You're a werewolf after all, and I'm just a human-like banshee. But you'll catch me of course."

Her own breathing picks up as she tells him one of what feels like a million fantasies she has, her own arousal returning, making her press against his hand again. "You'll catch me, and you'll just press me against the first flat surface you can, grinding your cock against my ass as you tear away my panties, threatening and teasing me with those claws of yours. Maybe you'll put your fangs on my neck, holding me in place like we're real animals." Her own whimper cuts off her words, and she has to close her eyes and breath to focus herself, this isn't just for her after all.

"You'll probably tear your own pants away too, not that I'll be all that aware of what you're doing. Too focused on that hand of yours playing with me, turning me into a quivering mass of arousal, needing a release more than anything else in the world. And you'll take that wonderful cock of yours and shove it right in. Hard enough that I orgasm around you, my walls clinging so tightly from the intensity of it that you'll have to work to pull out." She whimpers again at just the thought of it, shifting restlessly to relieve some of the pressure inside her. "But that's what you want isn't it?" She pants into his ear. "You want to work at it," she slides her hand back up to the head of his cock, thumb rubbing at his slit and spreading the pre-come coming from him all over. "Want that struggle."

She's definitely sure she's never gotten herself off from dirty talk; but there's a first time for everything.

This isn't something he would've thought she wanted, his eyelids fluttering as he listens to her describe it. Peter closes his eyes, picturing it all in his head as she goes further with the fantasy. Breathing raggedly, he feels his muscles pulse as he imagines his canines turning to fangs, latching onto her neck and holding her firmly in place. By the time she describes them as animals and whimpers against his ear, a similar sound escapes him; he should be growling or groaning maybe, but it just sounds soft and needy.

He resumes touching her more evenly again, easing in one more finger than normal this time, imagining himself inside of her and her clinging to him just the way she describes. The shift of her hand, her voice in his ear, and the final images her words conjure up send him over the edge, but instead of all the typical masculine reactions he could have, he comes with another whimper, spurting over her hand, and buries his face in her neck as he presses her closer with the other hand on her back. A loose sound escapes his throat next, half moan and half something else.

He would lose it, dominating her like that, but right now, it's the other way around; maybe more with words, but the same principle. He lays his head against her shoulder, his fingers splaying across her back as he holds her.

Lydia finds Peter's whimpers do things to her, things she never expected them to. She loves them though, the way they make her feel powerful, even as she talks about being made powerless; even just the sound of them, how it feels like he's giving her something special, drives her own arousal higher, until she's sighing against his ear in orgasm.

As he presses her closer she removes her hand from his cock and brings it up to her face, licking herself clean. Her other hand she moves back into Peter's hair, combing through it softly, occasionally giving his scalp a light scratching.

"That was wonderful," she tells him quietly. "I hope you enjoyed it too." And if he did, then she's damn sure it's something she's going to trot out again at a later date. Domination for her has usually always meant tying someone up, but if Peter likes her words more—part of her huffs in laughter at the thought of 'using your words'—then she'll happily do that instead of something he's told her he doesn't like.

Her hand now clean she moves her head slightly and rests it against his own, humming a few bars of a nonsense tune.

Peter lifts his head only slightly, removing his hands from her to try and tuck himself back into his pants before someone walks in on them. His brain is foggy, thoughts failing him. "Was that," he tries, pausing to breathe slow, "was that something you want?" He rests his head back to hers, running his hand along the back of her hair.

She leans into the touch, humming happily. "Yes," reaching up she lightly tweaks his ear. "Now are you going to answer my question?" 

Peter shivers as she toys with his ear, and then blinks a little stupidly. "What question?"

She swirled her fingers in his hair. "Did you enjoy that?" Pulling away for a minute she stood, straightened herself out, then sat right back down on his lap, sitting crosswise again, a position she much preferred over straddling him. As if to make up for the fact that she was away for even that long she picked up on scratching his scalp again.

Peter watches her until she returns to his lap, his eyes closing again as she resumes scratching nails through his hair. "I would've thought my reaction was enough to tell you that," he says in a low voice, rubbing a hand across her back. "Yes, I liked it." He turns, kissing her ear. "Really," Peter adds, lowering another kiss. "Really." And another. "Liked it." He nuzzles into her neck.

With a happy sigh she arches against him, moving her hand down to scratch the nape of his neck. "The body can enjoy something the mind doesn't Peter," she reminds lightly; tilting her head down to nuzzle at his temple. "And I think we'd better leave soon, before we outstay our welcome." She bites back a smile.

"Point taken," he says. "On both accounts, but—” Peter can't resist the urge to get in a jab, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "Here I thought you wanted to cuddle."

Rolling her eyes she huffs and yanks briefly on his hair. "I do," she presses herself flush against him. "But I would much rather do it in a bed or on a couch than here. I could drive for a little while, enough to get us into Illinois." She loves taking her time on trips sure, but she also knows Peter's money won't last forever.

Peter makes a muffled noise as she tugs on his hair. "Be careful," he teases, "I might like that, too, and we'll be back where we started."

She laughs brightly. "Well if we're alone at that point I might not stop you."

He smiles. "Alright, let's go." With her still sitting in his lap, he can't resist patting her bottom. "Ladies first."

She gives an indignant, yet playful squeak as he gropes her. And smacks him on the shoulder as she stands. "Horrid." Still, she's smiling when she unhooks Prada, who yaps happily as they begin walking. She twists her hand so that she's holding it out to Peter. "Keys," she was serious about doing the driving.

"And I used my manners," he scoffs playfully, standing up after her. He fishes the keys out of his pocket, handing them to Lydia. "We might as well get to the other side of this country sooner rather than later."

Taking the keys she wraps Prada's leash around her wrist and loops her free hand around Peter's arm. "My thoughts exactly." She says as they walk through the cafe and back out onto the street. When she slides into the driver’s seat she adjusts it, then hooks her phone up to his stereo. "Music preferences?" She asks as she deletes new voicemails and texts—making yet another mental note that they need to get her number changed—then bringing up Pandora.

"Something relaxing," he says from the passenger seat, realizing a drowsiness hangs over him. It might be from the long hours driving across country catching up with him or maybe just from their illicit public behavior a few moments ago.

Finding she's biting back a smile she brings up a classical station and lets it play as she pulls out into the street, keeping an eye out for freeway signs.

Her choice of music lulls his eyes to a close, his head resting against the seatbelt. It doesn't take long before he falls asleep either.


	10. Chapter 10

As Lydia pulls onto the nearest interstate she glances at Peter and bites back a smile to see him fast asleep, Prada curled up on his lap for the time being.

She turns up her music a little louder, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she drives, occasionally humming along when she recognizes the symphony.

Hours pass, when she gets hungry she pulls off and heads through a drive-thru—she knows fast foods disgusting, but she'd rather keep driving. She feeds Prada a fry as she gets back on the freeway. 

Peter wakes with a start, his breathing fast and heart rate abnormal. He lifts his arm, clenching his fingers into his palm and feeling a ghostly sensation that isn't there. He only recognizes Prada is in his lap when his sudden movement startles the dog, causing the animal to stare apprehensively at him in the dark.

The movement from Peter catches her eye and she glances over, but quickly looks back at the road, because it's night and she'd rather they didn't die in a crash. "Are you okay?"

Even with her bout of road-safety consciousness she reaches out and rests a hand on his arm.

Peter lowers his arm, slowing down his breathing. "Bad dream," he tells her simply, and then reaches out for Prada to scratch behind his ears. "Sorry, little guy," he apologizes in a lighter voice.

The 'has to know everything' part of her wanted to press, but the rest of her says no, that there are somethings that didn't have to be shared. So she changed the subject. "Are you hungry? I think there might still be a few fries left over from my dinner." But she makes a face at the thought of eating cold fries.

"Yeah," he admits, stomach rumbling in protest, "I'm hungry." He pets Prada's fur, finding it comforting. Peter looks outside the window at the darkness. "How long are you going to drive?"

A shrug. "A while yet I think, I'm not tired." It's only a bit of a lie. "I think we're almost through Indiana." She hasn't been paying too much attention to where she is, other to make sure she's still going east. A sign listing food catches her eye as something from Swan Lake starts playing on the stereo. "Do you want to stop to eat or would you be okay with drive through?"

"Drive through's fine," he replies, sounding a little distant. Despite being a small dog, or maybe because of it, Prada is quickly becoming a source of comfort in his arms.

"Alright," she answers quietly, pulling off the interstate and heading into the small town. "Any preference?" 

"Anything with meat," he tells her, his voice finally picking up. Prada has curled up back into his lap again, and Peter pushes the remainder of the dream away for now.

She finds herself biting back a smile as she pulls up into a Subway drive-thru. She orders him a footlong meat lovers, and some cookies for herself; she might still be full from dinner, but better to get a snack now instead of having to pull over again later. After she pays she hands Peter his food. "When you're done eating do you want switch? I could do with a nap," and from the way he woke up she's sure Peter doesn't want to go back to sleep anytime soon.

Peter accepts his food, nodding. "I'll take over," he agrees. "But first, I'm stretching. After I eat." They've been cooped up in this vehicle for hours now. He's going to need to walk for a moment.

A short walk sounds fantastic, and she doesn't doubt Prada would appreciate it too. She keeps an eye out for rest stops; even though it's the middle of the night she's not afraid of running into anyone who might hurt her, Peter is probably far scarier than all of them combined.

For some reason thinking that fills her with a pang of sadness and she finds herself blinking back tears. Spotting a sign for a rest stop she takes the designated exit, and pulls into the first parking space she finds, though really she has her pick considering there's no one else around.

Despite the fact they're alone Lydia, even if she wants to, isn't going to leave the car without Peter. So to try and distract herself she reaches out and snatches a piece of salami dangling out the bottom of his sandwich.

Peter eats without commenting on the sudden change in Lydia, but he notices it. He leaves it be, considering she didn't prod him about his dream, but once she steals a piece of salami from his sub, he speaks up. "Hey now," he chides, leaning away from her. "You should've gotten your own."

Lydia manages a smile. "If I hadn't eaten it it would've just fallen on your lap and made a mess, I was just doing you a favor." 

He rolls his eyes, though he is smiling. "Should've let it fall, then gone after it." Peter raises his eyebrows, daring her to challenge it. She might punch his shoulder, but it will be worth it.

She shoves his shoulder. "You're horrible," granted, his teasing  _ is _ lightening her mood. So she appreciates it. "And really as far as lines go, I'm sure that's one of the worst I've heard. And anyways," her tone grows more serious. "Overall I'm not a big fan of giving blowjobs," she had to be in the right mood, and that didn't happen all that often.

Having been ready for a snappy comeback, her sudden honesty throws him completely off guard. Peter swallows the food in his mouth before turning to face her, sub still in hand. "What?"

Considering that was the first thing she attempted to do with him, he isn't sure how he feels about it now. As comical as it might appear, Peter glances down at his crotch, recalling that first time in the shower, and looks at her again. "Seriously?"

Not liking having to turn her head to look at him Lydia unbuckles her seatbelt and turns in her seat. "Yes, seriously." She shrugs and reaching out lightly scratches behind Prada's ear. "Sometimes I'm in the right mood and I'm more than happy to give one. But overall..." She drifts off; she knows sometimes it's a dealbreaker but most times not. It's not the semen thing, she's more than happy to have it—she even likes the taste of it—it's just always felt weird to her to have a penis in her mouth. 

Not that he has wanted one yet, but he feels the loss of it already and files the knowledge away to not ask for one in the future. He goes back to eating again. "I'll try to keep that in mind," he says between bites.

For the moment she kicked off her shoes, tucking her feet under her legs. She's not quite sure what to say in response, she can feel an air of disappointment around him—for once her banshee senses being useful—but she'd rather not be waspish about it; he's allowed not to like it, just so long as he respects it.

So instead she pulls Prada from his lap, giving him a good rough scratching with her nails and sending him into doggy bliss.

For the moment, there's silence. Oddly uncomfortable for him until he banishes it with a change of topic. "You don't have to wait on me," Peter says, nodding towards her door. "You can go ahead and stretch if you need a break out of the car. I'm almost done."

"I'll wait," she is a little antsy to go outside but... "I'd rather not find out what would happen if I go alone." Experience tells her another 'friend' will make themselves known.

"Do you mean the visions?" he asks, before adding, "Voices?" After all, sometimes she sees things and sometimes she hears them.

"Yeah," she doesn't see a need to beat around the bush. 

Nodding his head, Peter then finishes his meal and bags up the trash. He gets out of the vehicle and walks around to Lydia's side, knowing he'll reach her before she manages to get her shoes back on. He opens the door and holds his hand out to her to help her out as soon as she's ready to step down.

It's almost a surprise how fast he gets to her side, though she finds she's grateful. And when she climbs out she doesn't bother putting Prada on a leash; he won't go far. He trots off and sniffs at the bushes. "Thank you," she tells Peter as she takes his hand.

His hand clasps hers, and he helps her down. Her reminder of those visitors as a result of her banshee powers puts Peter's mind back on track and away from his jokes and jabs. It's all that really matters, after all.

Everything else is inconsequential.

He doesn't say  _ you're welcome _ . It's not something he has ever bothered saying much in his life, but the sentiment is there in the way he helps her down and the way his hand continues to linger despite her feet having already touched the ground. His other hand reaches out for her hip to steady her, not that she needs it, but maybe it's more for his conscience, anyway.

When his hand wraps around her waist she moves closer, enjoying the warmth his body radiates. It's kind of nice being alone here, the quiet and the sounds of nature around them soothing. "It'll be nice once we've finally stopped." The thought of hearing the ocean every night is something she looks forward to.

He knows it shouldn't be much longer before they reach their destination. Over half of the trip is over with by now, an expanse of land far and wide behind them.

"Stop traveling," Peter asks slowly considering his words carefully, "or stop running?"

The question has her stopping, but then she quickly takes the few steps needed to catch up to Peter and move in front of him, stepping around to hug him. Burying her face in his shirt she lets herself breath for a few moments before answering. "Traveling. I, I'm not sure how to stop running." A bitter laugh escapes her. "And yet how can you run when you're not moving?"

His arms close around her, enveloping her in his embrace as a breeze picks up against his right ear. Peter lifts his chin, staring off in the distance at nothing in particular. "You're talking to the expert on it," he says. "I'm very good at running without moving, and I can show you all the tips and tricks to be the best that you can be while still maintaining a flawless figure."

He can't seem to escape the jokes. At least some things never change.

The barest laugh passes her lips, "good thing I know how to accessorize."

She's starting to find the smell of him comforting, and she breathes it in; half wishing she had werewolf senses to capture every nuance of it. "And I guess I'll try to teach you abstract algebra?" It's an out and out joke, definitely certain math is not Peter's thing; but she's fine with that.

He lets out a fake deep sigh. "I have no idea what that is," he adds wistfully, smoothing his hand over her hair. He begins to sway a little side to side. "But I suppose that's where the teaching part comes in, huh?"

Absently her hands come up and straighten the fall of his shirt. "It's the study of algebraic systems." Granted she doubted he knew what that meant either. "Maybe we'll trade fashion advice instead." 

He pulls back to look at Lydia, narrowing his eyes. "Are you implying I'm not smart enough?"

"Peter..." It's not exactly warning in her voice, but there is a thread of annoyance. "I know you’re not as smart as I am," it's a deliberate choice to use smart instead of intelligent; because in her mind they mean two different things. "And you said yourself that math wasn't your thing." 

Now it's a challenge. "What if I want to learn it?" he asks, feeling a little insulted that she would trade fashion advice but find him lacking in the ability to learn advanced math. Any time someone told him he couldn't do something, there was always a thirst to prove them wrong. "You wouldn't teach me even then?"

Well, if this is their first argument, then the irony gods must be laughing at her to have it be about something she's always managed to keep distant from her other boyfriends. "Then I'll teach you, although you hardly need to prove anything to me." She  _ knows _ he's intelligent, she's seen him talk circles around almost everyone, it's just a different sort from her own; and all she can think is that if he goes through with this it might be something they both start to hate. But if that's what he wants then she'll do it.

"I'm not threatened by your intelligence," Peter tells her, the defensiveness finally gone. "I find it an admirable trait, Lydia. But don't you think it's a little unfair to write my own off so easily?"

"I'm not writing you off, or" she frowns a little. "I don't think I was." She tilts her head up slightly to look him in the eye better. "You just have different strengths than me. And I'm not expecting you to understand or be passable at mine."

He has nothing more to say to that, so he lets out a small sigh and wraps his hands around her waist and gives up the current disagreement. Pulling her closer, he focuses on the sounds around them. The parking lot is empty, save for them, and Prada trots back from the bushes to wander around the vehicle and stare at them. Peter leans his head against the side of Lydia's for the time being, his body resuming its sway.

It’s nice, the not-dancing. Nothing expected of Lydia except to be there. A small sigh of contentment leaves her and she lets herself cuddle closer. “We should head out again soon,” yet it’s a nice enough night that she doesn’t exactly want to. “But maybe a walk around the area first?” That  _ was _ part of the reason they stopped after all.

Peter finds himself laughing softly. “Alright,” he spares a brief glance at Prada, the only thing he can see of the dog is a part of his tail, he finds himself resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Come on then.” He doesn’t really let go of her though, keeping her close to his side as they begin to walk. It might be awkward for her, but he doesn’t want to let her go; he does shorten his stride some at least, so she’s not having to run to catch up.

It’s easy to notice that he’s shortened his stride, she  _ has _ seem him walk before, but it’s appreciated because she’s not exactly up in the mood for running; even if it’s strangely awkward for the both of them.

They finish their walk and Lydia feels a bit better about everything. With casual ease she pushes herself up and kisses his cheek, before disentagling herself and getting into the car, calling for Prada.

While the kisses don’t catch Peter off as much as they used to it’s still...strange. Prada bowls past him, distraction enough from his thoughts. Reaching out he closes Lydia’s door before she can, then moves around to his side. Climbing in and readjusting the seat once more.

Lydia’s music gets a little bit louder as Peter starts up the car, a pleasant enough way to fill the silence. Prada leaps from the foot well to her lap and she spends a few moments vigorously scratching. When she stops she slides a little further down, resting her cheek against the side of the seat. Closing her eyes she lets herself drift off.

Glancing over Peter sees her close her eyes and looking back out the windshield settles himself in for more driving. He does feel better now that they’re much further away from California, but there’s still a ways to go before he thinks he can truly relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this week, but next weeks'll be longer, so I hope this is enough to tide you over for now. Also sometimes you need nice little interludes (well 'nice' to a point), we do like to give these two _some_ breathers.


	11. Chapter 11

Lydia awakes with a start, with a soft groan she rubs her eyes and sits upright, “where are we?” It’s daytime now, meaning she’d slept longer than she thought she would, and they’re clearly in a city.

“Columbus,” Peter answers, his eyes looking around for a hotel to stay at. Spotting one he turns into it, intent on getting some sleep himself.

Nodding, Lydia turns her head to stare out the window, watching the city starting to wake up from the looks of it. When the car stops she opens the door, shooing Prada off her lap as she climbs out, and lets herself fall into the now familiar ritual of grabbing her bag and following Peter in to get a room.

Once in there she drops her bag next to the bed, “I’m going to take a shower.” She feels a bit like she needs it, wash off the road and yesterday as best she can.

“Alright,” it’s easy enough say as Peter drops off his own bag. “I’ll probably be asleep when you get out.” Which almost catches him off guard, how  _ strange _ it is to say that to someone, even if it is Lydia. It’s the truth however, and he sits on the bed and takes his shoes off.

Lydia’s a little saddened by that, but she’ll live. Grabbing a change of clothes and her shower kit Lydia heads into the bathroom, the hot water on his skin feels wonderful and she feels herself relaxing as the water pounds against her.

Slipping under the covers Peter finds himself smiling, just faintly over the water he can hear Lydia humming, he wonders if she even knows she’s doing it. It’s a pleasant way to fall asleep at the very least.

Reaching out to grab a towel Lydia shuts the water off. Drying herself off she braids her hair and pins it up before dressing. When she gets out it’s to the sight of Peter curled up on the bed, Prada a ball of fluff against his back. It makes her smile and as quietly as possible she picks up the phone and orders up a small breakfast for herself, she’s got the cookies, but she’s sure they won’t be enough.

While she waits for her food, she turns on the TV, quickly turning down the volume as low as she can; glancing quickly over at Peter and sighing in relief to see she didn’t wake him. She settles on HGTV just in time for her food to arrive.

She sets the tea on the bedside table and carrying the plate she climbs into the other side of the bed. Once she’s comfortably settled against the headboard she sets the plate in her lap and starts slathering cream cheese on her bagel, most of her attention focused on the reno show.

As she eats she wonders if she wants this whole thing to grow familiar, or if it would be nice to have it always be a small sort of shock. Well, the traveling part she’d like done with,  _ soon _ she thinks, but the rest of it?

Sighing she takes a sip of her tea, she knows it doesn’t do any good really to fret about that sort of stuff. She’s made her bed and now she’s going to have to lie in it. All worrying and wondering does is distract her mind, and while sometimes that’s appreciated, right now it’s not.

Finishing her bagel she makes herself a bit more comfortable and does her best to focus her whole attention on the TV, seeing if she spots anything she likes.  _ Soon _ .

Peter awakes slowly. Faintly he can hear the TV, but over that he hears Lydia and Prada, it sounds like they might be tussling. He moves his head, caught a little off guard when he realizes it’s not on a pillow anymore but Lydia’s lap.

Lydia feels Peter move and feels a little bad, moving her hand from Prada she runs her hand through his hair in a sort of apology. “Sorry, I didn’t think we would wake you.” But she had been wanting to play with Prada, she hadn’t in a while and felt guilty.

“It’s alright,” Peter says it almost slowly, caught off guard, yet again, by her petting. Her easy affection with him is still strange. It’s something he’s getting used to however, and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing. Turning his head he looks at the TV, “getting more ideas?” On the screen a yard’s being torn up.

“Not really,” she admits. “It’s just been something to watch really.” So far Kira or Stiles haven’t returned, but it’s a lingering fear in the back of her mind. 

Peter hums, half watching the TV, half watching Prada as he finally gets playtime is over and settles against Lydia’s legs. Absently he reaches out and scratches the dog’s chin.

The silence doesn’t exactly unnerve Lydia, but she still finds she wants to fill it. “I want to find out more about my banshee powers.” It escapes her in a rush, almost like she’s afraid that if she doesn’t get it out now, she never will. When really, as far as she knows they’ve got all the time in the world to explore her powers.

Lydia says it so quickly that it takes Peter a few seconds to parse what she’s saying. But when he does he nods. “That sounds reasonable, after all understanding her powers might help stop whatever’s happening to her. Although he’s not sure how  _ he _ can help. “Here? Right now?” To be fair they’re only likely to be disturbed if something...noisy happens, but it hardly seems like a good environment to him.

Biting back a brief laugh Lydia shakes her head, “no. I, I want to get out of the hotel room for a while, get some fresh air. Maybe get some food,” she says the last part more for his benefit, she’s still pretty full from her own breakfast.

“Okay,” he responds with a slow nod. On an impulse he reaches out and cups her cheek with a hand, “we’ll figure this out.” He wonders if he should really be saying that, if the false hope might be worse than what she’s experiencing now. But he also doesn’t like this dejected Lydia, he wants her more like he remembers.

The hand surprises Lydia and she finds herself smiling. “Thanks.”

Peter gives a brief nod, not sure how else to respond. “Let me shower first then we can head out.” Not waiting for a response he pulls his hand away and climbs out of the bed. The shower still faintly smells of Lydia, and he tries to shake off how that makes him feel as he climbs in.

While Lydia’s a little disappointed by him not kissing her—it would have been nice—she gets up and dresses—she’s running out of dresses had has to resort to her single pair of jeans—checking her hair with her hands to make sure it hadn’t gotten  _ too _ dislodged. Slipping on one of her favorite pairs of heels she crouches down and fed Prada; she’ll take him with them when they go out, but it would be a good idea to feed him a little now anyways.

When Peter steps out of the shower it’s to find Lydia ready to go, Prada on his leash. “So eager to get out?” He teases as he goes to his own suitcase and digs around for clothes.

Lydia laughs. “What can I say, I thought it would be nice to stretch other parts of me besides the usual.” The moment she finishes saying it she blushes, the salacious words catching her off guard. She hadn’t thought she’d say something  _ that _ dirty.

Peter finds himself freezing at her words. He manages to quickly shake it off and glances at her from the corner of his eye as he finishes pulling on his pants. She’s blushing, which probably means she hadn’t quite expected her own words. Still he finds himself smiling. “I’m fairly certain most women complain about a  _ lack _ of sex, not an overabundance.” He does his best to keep his tone friendly needling, instead of bitter or annoyed. Because the latter is hardly how he feels, and after the other day he doesn’t exactly want Lydia to get the wrong impression.

His response catches her even more off guard, and her blush is probably deepening as she shakes her head and stands. “Nope. We’re not talking about this anymore. We’re leaving and finding food.”

Peter bites back a laugh, knowing that she wouldn’t see it kindly. Still it’s a reminder that for all her experience she’s still innocent about some things, which dries his laughter right up. Finishing with his shirt he walks over to her and leads them out.

After a quick check at the concierge for good local places they head out on foot. The both of them quiet as they walk. Not that Peter’s bothered. 

When they reach the cafe Lydia finds herself blushing again as they step inside, finding herself reminded of yesterday. And while she doesn’t usually mind sex right now doesn’t feel like the best time.

They order their food quickly, well Peter orders food, Lydia just gets a cup of tea. Usually she’s more than willing to converse while they eat, but since they’ve agreed to explore her powers more—she finds herself feeling a brief pang for Meredith—her stomach’s been in a knot and she feels more nervous than she can ever remember being before.

As Peter digs into his food he watches Lydia, she’s clearly nervous about something, he gets it in her scent and in the way she’s fiddling with her cup. “Lydia,” he finds himself reaching out and resting one of his hands on top of her own. “It’ll be fine, I won’t let anything happen to you.” The words slip out unbidden, and now he’s not sure if he can take them back—or even if he  _ wants _ to take them back.

Lydia looks up at Peter in shock, did he really mean it? Or is he just trying to comfort? Quickly she raises her cup in an attempt to recover herself; she grimaces when she takes a sip, still far too hot. She set her cup down before she made the mistake of taking another drink. “Thanks,” her smile is a bit shaky, but it’ll have to do. Her mind is still racing however, and she truly does feel like a teenaged girl, trying to figure out of her crush is saying more than he really is.

Taking his hand away Peter returns to his own food. His own mind working far harder than before. He cares for Lydia, of that he has no doubt,  and while he’s promised to protect her before this time it feels different. He shakes his head as if trying to shake the thoughts from his mind; they’ve got more important things coming up, he’s got no time to really figure out how he feels.

Not minding in the least that they’ve fallen back into silence Lydia focuses on her tea, there’re no tea leaves of course, but maybe she can divine her own future from it anyways. If it’s there though it’s not making itself known. With a soft sigh she picks up her cup and drinks again, much better.

Prada gives a brief woof as another, much larger, dog walks by with it’s owner, with a fond roll of her eyes Lydia shushes him, she really should have named him ‘David’, it would have been a much better fit for him.

A strange sort of smile finds its way onto Peter’s face as he watches Lydia, when she’s like this it’s easy to see why people love her. Why  _ he _ might fall in love with her. And while she’s admitted to starting to fall in love with him, he’s reluctant to return the sentiment, even if it might be true. 

He wishes he could focus on what’s in front of them, instead of this. He sighs.

“Something wrong?” It leaves Lydia without her meaning to say it. 

“No, my thoughts aren’t just going where I want them too,” not quite a lie, but not all of the truth either. On the other hand if he ever does tell Lydia how he feels he wants to be sure of himself, she deserves that much at least. So saying nothing is the best course for now.

Something like a wry smile crosses Lydia’s lips. “I understand,” she’s certainly dealt plenty with her own mind going places she would rather it not, or focusing on something when she’d rather be thinking about something else. “Almost done,” she arches an eyebrow slightly at his nearly empty plate, something she thinks is nervous excitement building in her. She’s only done little ‘dips’ when it comes to exploring her powers, this will be her first full...ish, exploration.

She’s not sure if it’s consider irony or not when she’s exploring it with the man who forcibly awakened it in her. Shoving that thought to the side, it’s  _ done _ she’s forgiven Peter, she drinks the last of her tea.

Peter snorts softly as he east the rest of his sandwich. “Alright,” he concedes, “we can go.” Without really meaning to he starts to scan the area to see if there are any out of the way nooks where they won’t be disturbed.

Standing Lydia unties Prada’s leash. She’s nervous enough now that she wonders if maybe they shouldn’t do this. Except that she doesn’t want to live in fear of herself for the rest of her life, neither can she ignore what’s now a major part of her life. And if doing this can help figure out why her friends seem to be haunting her than so much the better.

Joining Lydia Peter finds himself smiling, “impatient are we?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Trust me, this isn’t impatient. I just want to get started.” This time she leads, keeping her eyes peeled for a good, out of the way, place.

After a few minutes of walking they come across a small park, clearly in disuse if the way it’s overgrown is anything to go by. Lydia would have thought a park in such an area would have been well tended, regardless of how many people walked through it, but their lose is her gain. Without a second thought she leads Peter in, finding a bench that’s relatively free of growth and hidden enough. Hopefully she doesn’t scream—then again most humans don’t seem to hear her.

While Peter knows she expects him to help her, he’s not quite sure how; he’s as in the dark about her own powers as she is, resurrection notwithstanding. But he finds he’ll still do his best to help her, even if it’s by...unconventional means. That doesn’t mean he won’t be honest with her. “I don’t know if this is the best way to go about it, but I’ll teach you how I was taught to connect with my own abilities alright?” It’s the only way he knows how.

Lydia gives a nod, it had been a wild sort of hope that the archive had some long forgotten tome about banshees that Peter had stumbled across, but that was hope for you. “Okay,” she says, just incase he needs that. “What should I do?”

Peter turns so he’s facing her more, “I need you to close your eyes, clear your mind as best you can.” Which isn’t really necessary, but he knows it helps the first few times.

Closing her eyes Lydia breaths deep, not trying to  _ stop _ her thoughts, but just letting them pass by, barely acknowledged. It helps that she’s sort of done this before, meditation helps some with school work. “Alright,” she says softly, keeping her breathing regular and steady.

“Now,” Peter continues. “Feel around, there should be a...part of you that feels slightly different. A part that might be trying to reach out to  _ you _ . Reach out for  _ it _ until you grab it.” He’s not sure if he can describe it any better than that, so he hopes she understands.

Keeping up her breathing Lydia turns herself inward, trying to see if she does indeed sense a part of herself that’s different from the rest.

Something sort of chilly seems to be ‘reaching’ for her and certain that must be what she’s looking for Lydia reaches back. ‘Straining’ herself she makes contact.

Her mind starts to feel...fuzzy, and when she opens her eyes she sees Scott, Stiles, Kira,  _ everyone _ . Whole and well and smiling.

“Lydia?” Her eyes are unfocused and staring at something he can’t see, he doesn’t even know if he should be worried or not. It wouldn’t surprise him if banshees could see ghosts, but it doesn’t stop her current state from being eerie.

_ “Hey Lydia _ ,” Scott’s smiling.  _ “We miss you, why don’t you come home?” _

_ “Yeah,” _ Stiles rolls his eyes.  _ “I need my research buddy back.” _

A fond huff escaping her she stands. Trusting her friends she beings walking.

This...definitely doesn’t feel right, before he can stop himself—not that he wants to—he reaches out and grabs her wrist. For all he knows she might walk into traffic like this, and he promised to keep her safe.

Only to stop when she feels warm fingers around her wrist. Turning she sees...Peter.

_ “Bastard,” _ Stiles hisses in her ear.

_ “How can you be with him? He  _ hurt _ you.” _ Kira accuses.

_ “He’s going to hurt you again unless you escape,” _ Scott cautions.

“Let go of me,” Lydia hisses. Unsuccessfully trying to tug her wrist free. “I need to go.”

Peter frowns. “Go where Lydia? I won’t let go unless you tell me.” It’s probably a lie, right now she’s definitely not herself and he doesn’t trust her to look after herself, or make sensible decisions. It would be different if she’d done like they discussed, but she hasn’t, so he gets to try and keep her here. It doesn’t exactly look to be a fun prospect at the moment.

“Home,” she spits out. “I have to go _ home _ .” She jerks her arm, hard enough that she feels the muscles protesting, but she somehow wins free. With her friends whispering and encouraging her she dashes away towards the exit of the part.

He only remains frozen in surprise for a second, before he’s up and chasing after her. He grabs her other wrist, hoping he doesn’t grab too hard, and pulls her towards him, wrapping his other arm around her to trap her against him. “Lydia, this isn’t you. You don’t want to go home remember? We were going to go to the coast, live by the Atlantic. With woods nearby,” he doesn’t know if that will do any good, but he’s not sure what else to do.

Lydia struggles as he holds her against him, the bastard  _ hurt _ her, what right does he have to do this? But then he starts talking and… While she can still hear her friends, she can hear him too. And what he’s saying, the images those words conjure; a nice large bed, the french doors open to let in the warm sea breeze and the sounds of the ocean.

Yes, that, that sounded wonderful. Beautiful and carefree. “Peter?” Her voice sounds almost scared, and her friends are shouting at her now, telling her to get away from him, to come home. But, but she doesn’t know if she wants to.

“Hey,” he thinks he’s smiling, although he’s not sure how comforting it might be. “I’m here.” He sounds...emotional, it’s almost unnerving. Reaching up he cups her cheek with his hand, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone. If telling her their plans actually  _ worked _ he might as well stick with it. “You’re going to go to MIT,” now he  _ knows _ he’s smiling, a confident one even. “You’re going to blow everyone else out of the water.”

It’s like being caught in molasses, it’s hard to move and the haziness clings to her. The threads connecting her growing thinner and thinner, but never really breaking. “Peter, don’t let me go.” It’s a plea, but that’s what it’s supposed to  _ be _ . Because he’s right, she doesn’t want to go to Beacon Hills, but she’s not sure she’s got a chance.

“Never,” not unless she does what they agreed.

Despite her knowing she’s trapped in something she still finds her friends trying to pull her back in. But she’s not sure how to break herself free. Desperately she raises herself up and kisses him.

Peter’s caught off guard by the kiss, but not for long. Eagerly returning it, if this is what she wants he’ll give it to her.

At the first moment their lips touch her ‘friends’ voices become almost inaudible. So she throws herself wholeheartedly into it. Her free hand comes up to tangle in his hair and she finds herself relaxing against him, a soft sigh escaping her.

Peter’s almost relieved when she responds, it suggests she’s fighting free of whatever’s gotten hold of her. Letting go of her wrist he get his other arm around her, a hand tangling in her own hair so he can tilt her head back a little further to get a better angle.

Lydia moans softly as Peter moves her and like that her ‘friends’ voices vanish completely. The haziness in her mind goes too. She sags against him, more in relief than pleasure. Breaking their kisses she buries her face in his shoulder for a second, blinking back tears. “I’m here Peter, I’m me again,” she sounds a mess, but really she has a right to be.

When she speaks Peter finds himself shuddering in relief, he doesn’t want to know what would have happened if that hadn’t worked, how would people have reacted if he’d tried to carry her back to the hotel room? She would have caused a fuss and certainly  _ someone _ would have called the cops. No, better that they’d broken it here, away from all but the most prying of eyes.

Now however, he finds he doesn’t really care who might stare, scooping Lydia and Prada up he starts heading back to the hotel; if anyone actually gets the nerve to ask he can just say she’s unwell, which is the truth even.

Lydia and Prada both make sounds of surprise when Peter scoops them up and begins, not quite jogging, but certainly moving quickly back. It’s nice though, because even if the strain had all been mental Lydia feels worn out, she could probably walk if she  _ had _ to, but it’s nice that she doesn’t.

Peter doesn’t care about the stairs as they get to the hotel, just marching straight for their room. Once they’re safely inside he shifts his hold on Lydia so that he’s supporting her with one arm, using the other he plucks Prada off of her and sets him on the bed. “What happened?” He finds himself unwilling to let her go, almost afraid that she’ll somehow fade away if he does.

Lydia finds herself laughing again, and she buries her face in Peter's neck. But her laughter soon dies down and she pulls away to look him in the eye.

"At the park I did what you suggested and, it's was like...getting caught in a net, except the net was my friends and they..." her gaze darts away for a second before she forces herself to look at him again. "They convinced me I wanted to stay in it. And they were trying to get me to go back to Beacon Hills." She shudders and finds herself cuddling closer. "But when you were talking about stuff we'd planned it started to pull me back. And I just, I wanted to kiss you; to let you know I was still in there and wanted out. Except it seemed to drive them away more. So we kissed more, and the bond snapped."

She's certain though it's not permanent, that if she slips it'll happen again; perhaps even worst than this time. Wrapping her arms around him in a hug she once again buries her face in his neck. "I...I don't want to explore my banshee powers anymore," she says it quietly, half-ashamed she's even saying it. That she's admitting the fear, frustration, and worry is getting to her so much so that she's willing to abandon something that she really can't escape.

He holds her tightly against him. "I don't think that's something you can avoid, but maybe we should stop for now." They at least ought to find someone who knows more than him, too, before they mess around with her powers again. There are a couple of things Peter could deal with a lot more easily than Lydia attempting to constantly leave him because of it.

Lydia gives a little sigh, a bit put out that Peter didn't completely agree with her; but she's a big woman and she can deal with it.

She kisses his neck. "Can, can we watch something and just cuddle? I, I don't want to think about anything serious right now."  _ Now _ she doesn't feel guilty about feeling needy. What just happened to her was  _ terrifying _ now that she's free of it; even worse that at the time she'd felt  _ fine. _

"Okay," he says. "You pick." He won't watch it, anyway. His nerves are a little rattled from what just happened, and he doubts he has the focus for anything other than keeping an eye on her. "Just let me get out of these pants," he adds. "I am not lounging in bed with jeans on."

Now that he mentions it...getting out of her own jeans sounds like a wonderful idea. But first she brings up the movie channels the hotel has and browses through them. Feeling something in her perk up just a little when she sees  _ Singin' in the Rain _ . Bringing it up she shimmies off the bed and quickly strips, stealing another one of Peter's shirts and pulling it on.

While she channel surfs, he takes off the jeans and tosses them onto a nearby chair before settling against the headboard and waiting for her. He notices her grab one of his shirts instead of her own, and he bites back a smile that threatens to creep onto his face at that.

Back on the bed she cuddles against his side, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder as she hits play.

Once she settles against him, he tugs the blanket over their legs and slips an arm behind her, winding it around to cradle her head as she rests against his shoulder. His thumb rubs back and forth across her hair, and he presses his nose against the top of her head. "My shirts are gonna smell like you," Peter comments idly, the movie only backdrop noise to his ears.

Curled up like this, feeling safe and protected, the events of barely even a few minutes ago feels far away; something she's eternally grateful for. "Is that such a bad thing?" She asks as, on screen, Don gives the story of his 'illustrious' past. "Maybe I'm marking my territory." It's not like she can leave hickeys after all. One of her hands slides under his shirt and absently scratches up and down his back.

"No, it's not," he answers softly, fingers tracing through her hair. A quiet laugh shakes his chest at her next claim. "And here I thought that would be something left up to me." He has no desire to mark her, though, but perhaps the scar on her side is evident enough and he would rather not mar that beautiful skin any further. "Are all my shirts going to smell like you?" Peter finds himself asking, more teasingly than anything, as he nudges his nose against her hair.

Prada leaps up onto the bed, trotting over to them before curling up in her lap, adding another layer of comfort. Her other hand starting stroking through his fur. "Mmmm, no, just the ones I like." Which, granted, is most of them.

He can't say he minds. All of his shirts could end up smelling like her, and he wouldn't care.

She shifts a little further onto her side, much to Prada's displeasure—though he still has quite a bit of lap—and throws one of her legs over Peter's. While she's certain by the end of the film she'll be sprawled out on top of him, this is good enough for now.

Prada joins them, but Lydia shifts, putting a leg over his, and Peter closes his eyes as he breathes in the scent of her hair. His other arm comes around her to hold her waist, and he squeezes tightly, savoring the moment and feeling even more protective over Lydia with her in his arms.

This is all she's really ever wanted, though she is still slightly amazed that she found it with  _ Peter _ . Not that she's going to question it. A a small sound of happiness leaves her.

About halfway through the movie she finds her eyes begin to droop, and not finding it in her to fight she lets them close and slips into sleep.

Peter notices it when she falls asleep, but he doesn't disturb her and lets it happen as his hand continues to stroke along her hair. He doesn't join her, preferring to stay awake after what happened so he can keep an eye on her. Even Prada falls asleep, curled up halfway in Lydia's lap and halfway on the bed between her and Peter. He glances up at the television as a new movie switches on after commercials, feeling his eyes begin to droop until he unintentionally falls asleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also we've got a fanmix now! [On 8Tracks](https://8tracks.com/mordreds_girl/old-things-fade-away)[or my Tumblr for non US readers](http://whenwolfsbaneblooms.tumblr.com/post/144767729852/old-things-fade-away-a-pydia-companion-mix).


	12. Chapter 12

_She is caught up, tangled, trapped. Her own body is the cage and she watches through her own eyes as her body moves and speaks and acts on it's own._

_Feels it smiles as it stabs Peter with a wolfsbane laced knife, it's horrible joy as it comes back to Beacon Hills and submits itself to the Dread Doctors._

_And Lydia watches, helpless, unable to even scream._

Prada's pitiful yelp makes her realizes she's thrashing, her body still halfway caught up in the nightmare even though she'd woken up. She's crying and her heart's pounding as she recalls the terror of her nightmare. "Peter?" Her voice trembles in fear.

Her thrashing wakes him, not just Prada, and Peter tightens his grip on her briefly to try and calm her. "Hey, it's just a dream, Lydia," he tells her, loosening his hold as she starts to still. His hands rub up and down, one on her arm and the other against her side. "Shh, I'm here."

With a sob she find herself clinging to him, grateful for the comfort he's offering. She buries her face in his chest; all too willing to cry, great big heaving sobs, as she manages to tell him about the nightmare. "I...I was trapped...and I couldn't do anything...while, while my body kept..." She can't continue, realizing that the last time she had nightmares like this was after...well after Peter; but this somehow feels worse.

Perhaps because it's from her 'friends' instead of a stranger who attacked her; or maybe because it just felt far more insidious than Peter had.

"It won't happen again," Peter says resolutely, but then again, never say never. "And if it does, we'll stop it. Okay?" His hands continue to rub along in a comforting manner to match his words. He tries not to think of the irony in their situation, but it's impossible not to; he was once, after all, the very monster she was trying to escape. And now, he is trying to help her fight off a new one. It is anything but lost on him.

She nods into his chest before moving herself up and rubbing her cheek against his; an action she finds comforting for reasons she's not quite sure of. "Thank you," she says quietly, laying quick kisses across his jaw. Doing it only because _she_ wants to, something spontaneous and out of the blue, a way to prove that it's _her_ mind in control of _her_ body.

His hand reaches up to cup her other cheek, and a small smile brushes his face at her action; cheek to cheek, there is an intimacy to it. Her kisses awake him further. He hasn't shaved still; the stubble an actual short beard by now. His fingers slip to the back of her neck to clutch in her hair. "What are you thanking me for?" he asks, his voice sounding just slightly scratchy.

She finds she likes the scratch, it's something she's never experienced with any of her other lovers before, sets Peter apart even more.

"For saying 'we', for helping when you didn't have to." Pulling away just a little she finds herself blushing at the admission.

We, he thinks. It's all either of them has anymore. A strange thought, and he finds he barely controls the way his fingers curve along her ear, combing hair behind it and out of the way. "I do it because I want to," he admits softly. "I have been doing it because I want to."

It's strange, Lydia realizes, to hear that and know, deep down, that the person means it. Pushing back into him she kisses him, reveling in all of it.

He kisses her back, his brain still muddled from waking up to think that they ought to wait or be slow given the circumstances of her own waking. But it's just a kiss. Just a glide of their lips as his fingers slip through her hair to pull her closer. Her smell surrounds him, and he parts his lips against hers, seeking something deeper.

She makes a happy sound in his mouth when his lips part, her tongue sliding in to tease his own. Her hands coming up to wrap around him, one resting on the nape of his neck, the other tangling in his hair.

The light teasing goes from a small brush of tongue, a pleased little sound escaping him, to Peter meeting her halfway in earnest. His hand falls down her back, gently pulling her towards his lap to make it easier. Right now, she lays halfway on top of him, the angle slightly crooked.

Eagerly moving she shifts so she can straddle him, and reminded of yesterday she pushes close, rubbing herself against him and moaning softly into his mouth. Her nails digging slightly into his skin.

He groans low in his throat, feeling himself already growing hard at the contact between them. His hands slip up her back underneath the shirt to glide over bare skin and enjoy the warm touch. He runs them over her skin as he kisses her, touching her anywhere and everywhere beneath the oversized shirt.

A shiver passes through her at the first touch, and finding herself impatient she lets go of him and grabbing the hem of her shirt yanks it off, her hair falling around her in a mess, leaving her in her bra and panties. The lack of shirt allows her to move closer though, pressing her front right against his, diving in for another kiss she moans into his mouth as his shirt and her bra rubs against her nipples.

A small part of him thinks he should halt this as she pulls off her shirt, but it's quickly overridden by the desire to pull her back to him. He wraps his arms around her again, tugging her back as they resume their heated kissing once more. It's nothing they both don't want. He pulls away from her lips to move in close to her neck, kissing her there and laying his mouth against the pulse point of her throat.

Being crushed against him is an interesting sensation, not that she minds. Although that thought is quickly replaced by the scratch of his stubble against her neck, making her giggle and squirm a little.

Still she tilts her head to the side to give him better access. Half wondering if the werewolf submission thing is true, the rest of her is too caught up in pleasure to care.

He hears the giggle; it perks up his ears, and he sets his teeth against her throat as he pulls his chest back enough to slip his hand between them and into her panties. He has his hand between her legs in no time, his other arm wrapping firmly around her back to hold her in place and prevent her from surprising him. He scrapes his teeth along her neck, kissing afterwards and working his hand against her, before he returns to her mouth.

Her giggles turn into moans as he steps up his 'assault'. Her hips begin to rock, encouraging his hand, but his other hand's holding her in place, keeping her from doing much else. She whimpers into their kiss, pulling away quickly to pant in his ear. "Peetteer," she arches, needing more.

He kisses her slowly, nipping at her lips, slowing the ministrations of his hand as she moans his name. He takes his middle finger and ring finger, easing them inside of her, the rest of his hand cupping her as he slides them all the way in. He loosens his grip on her back to let her move more freely. His free hand rests on her ass, squeezing, and encouraging her to move with him.

A sharp gasp leaves her as his fingers finally slide in. She tilts back, and manages to catch herself before she falls too far, her hips picking up their pace. His fingers feel wonderful, but still. "More," she pants out, meeting Peter's gaze. " _Please_."

His brow furrows just a little. "More what?" Not that he's trying intentionally to be dense, but she could mean anything.

She sinks onto his fingers, they go deep, but not as deep as she wants. But she can feel an orgasm coming regardless, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out. After what feels like forever she thinks she can talk again, "More, in me." She finds she doesn't even care how shameless she sounds.

He nudges his tongue against her lips, pressing a light kiss on them, when she bites down. "Don't do that," he murmurs. "How am I supposed to know if you're enjoying yourself?" His hand follows the rock of her body, but he's starting feel a little jealous of his own hand as he realizes she wants more of it.

She whimpers at his words, clenching around him tightly. Now wanting to chase down her orgasm despite not having all of him.

Peter slips his hand out and pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. He unhooks her bra and slides it off, kissing her shoulder as he goes. Running a hand down her chest, his thumb grazes her nipple and he cups her, tilting forward to catch it in his mouth.

And then he removes his hand.

"Nooo," she moans as his plays with her breasts. "Bast...ard." Hooking her legs around his waist she ruts against his cock, attempting to recapture a rapidly fading orgasm.

Peter laughs low, cutting off abruptly when she ruts against him. He wants to feel her climax around him in a much more intimate way than this, but when he glances across the room at his duffle bag, he briefly remembers the condoms yet also remembers how far away they are. He turns back to her, slipping his hand back under her panties. "So impatient," he teases, carefully pushing in three fingers as she earlier requested and pumping them in earnest as he palms her clit.

She falls limp against him when his fingers slide back in, " _oh_ ," orgasm feels _wonderful_. Squeezing around his fingers tightly, feeling them fight to move. But... "I need more Peter," she gasps into his shoulder, one of her own hands moving to grasp his cock through his boxers. "I _want_ more."

Her hand squeezes his cock, and he gasps low, rocking his hips once into her hand. "Take it, then," he whispers, still highly conscientious of her dream and holding back on being dominant with her.

A hum of pleasure leaves her at his words and she shoves the waistband of his boxers down, just enough for his cock to spring free. Rising up off his hand she murmurs as his fingers slip out, but shifting her position she soon replaces them with the hot head of his cock.

Once again she looks him in the eye as she begins to sink down. "Yes," she groans out ecstatically. _T_ _his_ is what she wanted, hard flesh that barely gave as her walls squeezed and fluttered. Sliding down feels like it takes forever—not that she's going to complain—but then he's in her fully, the fabric of his boxers pressing against her ass, and she can't help but moan again. "Oh God, Peter."

Surprise fills him briefly as she looks him in the eyes, but he lets the feeling go, knowing he has full control over himself. She feels exquisite, though, in such a way that his body falters as he shudders. Peter leans his forehead against hers and cups the back of her head, his other arm curled loosely about her waist. He tilts his chin upward, angling his mouth to capture her in a kiss. An uncommonly sweet gesture in the way he does it, despite the heat of the moment.

She sighs into the kiss, rocking her hips and feeling it shift him inside her. Playfully she licks his lips, smiling at him before darting back in and giving another soft kiss as she moves again.

Now that's she's as full as she's wanted to be she wants to savor it. "Slow," she murmurs against his lips. "Go slow."

"Okay," he murmurs, darting in to kiss her again, both of his hands slipping down to her hips to help guide her instead of thrusting. He helps to lift her slowly, letting her stay on barely just the tip of him, before he guides her back down with care. His fingertips dig into her hips in response to the pleasure he feels.

She shudders as he lifts her up, grasping his shoulders to steady herself. The descent is even more exquisite and a shuddering moan leaves her. She contracts around him as she rises up again. "Yes, Peter," she sighs.

He lowers his hands to the soft area beneath her thighs, helping to ease her up with a gentle push each time while allowing him more room to touch her, to run his hands over her skin close to where their bodies join. Peter lowers his face to her chest, laying a kiss on her collarbone before a groan escapes him. He breathes out slowly, adding her name at the end. "Lydia..."

All the light touches and caresses as they move is getting to her, adding to the sensations and driving her higher and higher. Until, with a shuddering cry she orgasms again; slumping against him bonelessly she nuzzles his ear. "I think I'm in love with you."

It's new to him, and surprising, but she's said something similar to this before, and so he goes with it more easily this time. Cradling her in his arm again, he shifts their position carefully and lays her out on the bed beneath him. He continues, rolling his hips against hers as he kisses her more ardently than before. "Tell me again," he says when their lips break apart. He moves only a little faster, just enough to increase the pace without being rough.

An unwilling squeak leaves her at the change of position—you'd think she'd be used to it by now—and her nails scratch at his back as he picks up the pace. "I... _ooohhh_...think I..."—she tosses her head back and whimpers when he rubs against her g-spot—”love you." She finally finishes, her legs wrapping around his waist and trying to pull him even closer; wanting to feel him orgasm.

He rocks into her faster, feeling the sweat pool on his skin and her legs lock around his waist. It feels intense beyond things he has experienced before, emotions and sex molding together, but it's not just him. It's her, too, and he feels things he normally wouldn't feel. He says things he normally wouldn't say. "You're mine," he says against her neck, voice low and grating and accentuated with a thrust. The words come out possessive. "Tell me you're mine."

 _I'm yours_. _Let me be yours_ , is what it means, but Peter has always taken great care of masking his true feelings and often hiding them for self-preservation, a habit he wouldn't break so easily.

His words aren't anything new to her—Aiden at his Alpha-est was fond of hearing it—but like many other things, right here with Peter it feels different. Hearing it growled against her throat as if Peter can barely contain the wolf inside him, the way he thrusts into her, him saying it on the tail end of her own admission.

"Oh God," she moans as she feels something like another orgasm move through her. "Yours," she whimpers, feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. "Oh God Peter, I'm yours." She can feel his blood pool beneath her fingers as her nails break his skin.

But in the back of her mind, those banshee senses she wishes she could ignore make themselves known, that there's something more here that needs to be said. Her hands leave his back, marveling at how strange it feels to have the skin healing while she's touching it, to tangle in his hair, getting his blood all over the place; using her hands she holds his head in place so she can look him in the eye, half wishing she were the one on top suddenly.

"Mine Peter," she finds herself whispering it, as if it's the greatest secret of all. "Be mine." It's literally something off a Valentine sweetheart but she doesn't give a damn. She finds herself repeating it, as if saying it more will make it even more true. "Be mine, be mine."

Her mantra's cut off by a scream, a shock that he managed to pull one out of her during sex, as she orgasms for the nth time, half wondering if she's actually going to pass out from the intensity of it.

He can smell the tang of his blood on the air even after he heals, and her hands, caked in it, hold his head in place and give him little choice but to look her in the eyes, his expression turning wide-eyed and vulnerable in the last minute. A strangled moan escapes his mouth as Peter comes with little warning even to himself, his body pushed over the limits of pleasure quickly in the heat of the moment. He spills inside of her at his deepest point, instinct telling him to maintain it and be still, and in the aftermath, rests his face against her chest. His muscles pulse sharply from the intensity of his own orgasm mingled with hers.

For a werewolf, he can even barely breathe.

He feels like he can't move, so he keeps still at first. What he does manage to do is kiss the skin where his head lays; it takes a gentle turn of his neck, but he is capable of that much. "Lydia," he whispers against her skin, reverent, needy, and fulfilled.

A moment later, he lifts his hips to pull out of her—and that's when he realizes his mistake. He may not have thought of it otherwise, but Lydia said no to it once, so it sticks in his memory.

Peter can never remember a time in his life ever uttering the next phrase out of his mouth, but it comes easily now.

"I'm sorry, I...I didn't..."

He doesn't even know if she's still taking birth control. How reckless could he be?

Watching Peter seemingly falling apart is something she's going to treasure in the crannies of her heart.

At first she's confused why he's apologizing, though that too is something she's going to treasure, but then he slips out of her and she can feel something seeping and... _oh_. "Peter, _Peter,_ it's alright," well not really, but. "I can go and get a morning after pill." But she wonders if she'll even need that since, she does a little mental calculation, "I think my period should be starting soon." Which should be _fun_. And she realizes she's rambling a little.

"Peter," she refocuses on him. "It's okay. _We_ forgot, and _we'll_ try not to again." Regardless of the fact that that was some of the best sex she'd ever experienced.

Something _flares_ in him at the idea of her taking a morning after pill; it must be the wolf, not the man, but it comes out as a hurt expression clear as day on his face. Given the situation, it could be misconstrued as guilt, but Lydia's smart. It's her choice, of course, and he would never force it either way. Peter doesn't know what else to say, though, so in his muddled and uncharacteristically vulnerable state, he just ends up apologizing again as he looks her in the eye. "I'm sorry." It comes out quiet and final.

She smooths her hands through his hair in a soothing gesture, only belatedly remembering she's still got blood on them. Instead she cranes her neck down slightly and kisses his forehead. "I forgive you," though she's just as guilty as him in this, probably even more so. "And this isn't exactly the best environment for a baby Peter."

Least of all because of all the strain it feels like she's under, what we being apparently haunted by her dead friends.

Her acceptance of his apology gives him a touch of peace, but only for a moment. It's ruined by what comes after, and in his emotional state, it sounds like blame. It stings. He pulls off of her to lay on the bed beside her, staring up at the ceiling. "I didn't say I wanted one," Peter tells her.

His words make her flinch, but she forces herself to not shy away, rolling onto her side so she's pressed against his, deliberately throwing an arm over his chest. "Shit, sorry. I...that...I could have said that better."

With a sigh she settles her cheek on his shoulder. "I'm not exactly in a good state for taking care of a baby." For all she knows there's no way to get rid of whatever's happening to her; blind terror fills her at that thought.

He doesn't pull away again, which is progress from before. His hand reaches up to touch her arm as he listens to her explain, and he softens up again. "I know." Peter turns his head to face her. "Can we stop talking about it?" he asks calmly, looking away again. "It would be your choice, anyway, not mine. I wouldn't have anything to do with it." But that admittance only brings up a sting to his eyes, and his vision waters as his chest feels tighter. He blinks, and a tear falls, and that only makes it worse. "Damn it," Peter swears, sitting up. He covers his face with both hands.

Right now, talk of children and babies and choice only serve to remind him of how it went the first time for him—with the child taken away, and he didn't even get to keep the memory of her birth. It isn't that he mourns the person either. Malia was nothing to him. She wasn't his. He didn't raise her. He wasn't her father.

It's what was done more than anything. What it could have been. Might have been. But he never had the choice or a say in it.

"Of course," she soothes, wanting to get away from the whole of it herself. But something in her coils when he says he'll have nothing to do with it, it's an uncomfortable feeling and she hates how it slithers in her gut.

Hurt twinges in her when he moves away again, she'd hoped they'd gotten past this...

Except she sees damp tracks forming on his cheeks and her heart breaks just a little. She gets up on her knees and without thinking wraps her hands around his head and neck and holds him to her chest. "Hey," she speaks in a quiet murmur. "I'm here," she starts rubbing her hand up and down his back. She wishes she knew what more to say to try and comfort him, because she doesn't want to promise that everything will be alright, or that it's okay, when it might never be. "Just let it out Peter." Then she goes out on a limb, "I want you to let me in Peter," she feels like she's told him more than she's told most others; but it still seems as if she hardly knows anything about him at all. Despite a seeming eternity of sharing a mind.

He sheds the tears in silence, wet breathing the only sound he makes as her arms come around him and he feels her hand on his back. He doesn't respond to the comfort right away, but eventually, he turns toward her and shows an acceptance for it.

She can feel her own tears gathering as she listens to him cry, but she finds herself relieved when he accepts her comfort.

However, the first thing out of his mouth is far from unexpected.

"Oh, wow," he says. "Crying after sex. That's a world record."

He stays in her embrace, though, letting the joke be what it is for the moment. It raises his spirits a little to make light of the situation, even if it's hardly light at all. But the small release he feels from it shrinks away again, leaving him with a somber air and unsteady breathing.

And at first she's incredulous and taken aback that he would be so self deprecating; but this is Peter, who always seems to do the unexpected—although she hopes the better she knows him the less unpredictable he'll be—and huffs in amusement.

"It's a delicate topic for me, Lydia," Peter admits slowly. "You know why." He shakes his head. "She wasn't my daughter, but—” _She could have been_ , remains unsaid. "No one let me. They took the memory. They took—” _Everything_. The memory. The child. The possibility. Hot tears spill from his lashes. "I wasn't given anything." It's quiet and small, lost most of all.

But then the mood returns to it's serious bent and... Rapidly she blinks back her own tears, but that doesn't stop some of them from falling. "It's," she sniffs, nearly having forgotten what an ugly cryer she is—she knew Stiles was lying back then, of _course_ he would lie to her. She takes a deep steadying breath. "This is a new start for the both of us Peter. I, I know it hurts. But it's the past, it can't be changed." She bites her lip to keep in a sob.

"They might have taken everything from you then, but they can't take anything from you now. At least," she bites her lip again, wondering if she's really going to say it. "At least not without going through me first." It's a fierce desire, rapidly growing alongside her sorrow and fear. She's not quite sure how it began, but she likes the feel of it, how it seems to make her feel stronger; this need to protect.

He finds himself feeling a little numb from the shock of what she says, pulling back so he can look her in the eyes. He wouldn't let that happen. He wouldn't ask her to sacrifice herself for him. Peter pulls her into his arms instead, changing their positions. "They're all dead now," he says. "The people who did that. They're all dead." He knows it's ghosts. He knows it's the past. He kisses her temple, runs a hand over her hair. Dipping his head beside hers, he brings up the uncomfortable question again. "Are you going to be alright or do you need me to take you somewhere?" After all, if she needs to do something, he knows it's supposed to be sooner rather than later.

Now that he's looking at her, really looking, she finds she doesn't want to cry, wants to look as strong as she sometimes feels. "I know they are," she strokes a thumb down his cheek—vaguely grateful that the blood on her hands has dried. "But there'll be others." There are always others, she knows that far too well.

Even after everything the care in his voice at his next question still takes her by surprise. Her eyes dart to the clock, _10 PM_ , and she shakes her head. "I'll be fine for now." Even if they did manage to find a 24 hour drugstore, she finds she doesn't want to leave the room right now; doesn't want to lose this intimacy. And anyways, her mother had given her a _very_ detailed Talk when she's been fourteen; she knew full well she could take a Plan B tomorrow morning, or even the morning after that, and still be good.

"I want to stay with you," she means it seriously, but her stomach growls partway through, making her press her lips together to keep from smiling; but she can feel it pulling at the corners of her mouth. "But maybe we could get something to eat?"

After everything, he laughs. Peter shakes his head. "So soon?" he asks, collapsing back to the bed. He glances at her, a teasing glint in his eye. "Come here."

She huffs again, and rolls her eyes, but goes; draping herself on top of him with a faint smile. "It _has_ been a while since we last ate Peter," it's not exactly a tease, especially when she recalls what's exactly happened between then and now.

He hums, only faintly acknowledging her, as he reaches up to pull her toward him for another kiss, this one languorous to fit the mood of the moment. "I know," he says between kisses, adding another and another. He makes the final one last, parting his lips against hers and lifting his head from the pillow. His hand glides down her back, over the curve of her ass, and it dips only just between for a moment. "I'm still hungry, too," he says, but of course he means it in a different way.

She moans into his mouth as they kiss, enjoying it, even if she's still hungry.

"Insatiable," she teases against his lips, her hips parting slightly as his light touch.

He slides his tongue along hers, letting himself get lost in her again. His hand comes up to curl in her hair. "Always," he says, kissing her again. Putting his hand on her bottom, he hauls her up on him and sits upright, taking Lydia with him. He wants to forget about everything they accidentally brought up, but not forget about the condom this time. Peter kisses her hungrily, smoothing his hands over her skin. They pass underneath her thighs, gently easing them further apart as she kneels in his lap. "I want you again," he murmurs, fingertips gliding close to her center over the sensitive flesh. "I'll get the condom if you say yes." He doesn't want to pressure her into anything she simply doesn't want to do.

At his touch her legs part, willingly giving him the access she wants him to have. Kissing him back with just as much passion. "Yes," she murmurs against his lips, "but food after." She teases fondly.

He smiles against her lips. "You can have all the food you want," he whispers, capturing her in another kiss. "Turn around," he tells her, moving as if to sit up on his own knees, too.

A shiver passing through her she moves as he asked.

Resting most of her weight on her forearms she spread her thighs wide, lowering her torso more to show herself off. "Like this?" She teases lightly.

A low growl fills his throat in response. He shifts close to her, running his palm over her hip, over the curve of her bottom, and an idea comes to him. He smacks her ass, half for the pleasure of it and half as punishment, but he loves her teasing. He leans down, softly kissing at the pink mark his hand left behind. "You're a minx," he says against her skin, his hand sliding over her back. He sets his teeth against her in a gentle bite.

She starts at the smack, a faint squeak leaving her; although she doesn't fail to notice the way her cunt spasms at the sensation. At his stroking touch she arches and purrs. "Always," she repeats back, hiding her smile in her forearm.

And when he bites her she sighs, body relaxing more than she thought it would. "Mmm, I hope you plan on blowing my mind again." She wiggles her ass enticingly. "I'm not sure I'm willing to settle for anything less anymore." It's a subtle challenge, but she's certain Peter's up to the task.

He pulls back, arching an eyebrow. "Well, I thought we were going to go slow, but I'm not so sure that's what you need." He strokes his cock, gently grazing a free hand over her back. "You stay here in position just like this," Peter tells her, using the sight to his advantage while he's in front of it. "And if you move before I get back, my hands won't be so merciful..." He glides a single finger down the center of her back, a promise, before slipping off the bed and going to get the condom.

Lydia trembles at his words, in a good way though, torn between listening to his instructions or disobeying. The indecision drives her arousal higher, and she squeezes the sheets between her hands, whimpering as she fights her body's desire to do _something_ to relieve this tension in her. "Peter..."

He waits a moment once he reaches the duffle bag, watching her fight what to do because it spikes his blood and makes it run hotter. Grabbing the foil packet, he makes his way back to the bed to settle behind her. His hands take their time rolling on the condom, and then he slips a hand between her legs, working light circles against her clit. It's only a ghost of a touch. "That was good, Lydia," he breathes out, grasping her hip with his other hand. "Can you sit up now? Keep your thighs open just like this."

A whine escapes her at the touch, her walls undulating and trying to hold onto to something that isn't there. She wants to shift her hips, to try and get more stimulation, but for all she knows he'll consider that moving.

With his next set of instructions she shivers, "I'll, try," she pants out. It's easy enough going up to being on her hands and knees, but she knows that it'll be harder once she starts to put more weight on her legs.

Still, Peter hasn't led her wrong yet, and she finds herself anticipating what he has planned this time. Taking a deep breath she pushes herself off the bed, only keeping herself from falling back on it by grasping the headboard. Which actually causes her legs to part a little more, the stretch of it not too bad at the moment, but she knows that can change quickly.

He notices her shaky legs and reaches out for her, looping an arm around her waist and pulling her towards him. With himself kneeling, it sets her in his lap intimately close. "It's okay," he says, softer this time. "Lean into me." That's where he meant to have her, anyway. His chest against her back, his thighs to hers, and his erection already between her legs given their position. Peter kisses her shoulder and then her neck, his mouth trailing up behind her ear. His arm remains firm and steady around her waist, and he snakes a hand beneath her, teasing her slick entrance with two fingers and then three, gently easing them inside. He wonders if any of it is his and not hers, and that primal thought urges a growl out of him as he removes his hand and eases her up just enough to position his cock beneath her and tease her with it.

Trusting him she lets go of the headboard, falling back into him, his body hot and insistent against her own. Her head falls back onto his shoulder baring her neck, and she gives a pleased hum when he runs kisses up it.

At the touch of his fingers she gasps and finds her legs parting more than they already have, her current position sitting on him allowing her more movement. When he growls she shudders and moans, more of her juices coating his fingers as he pulls them out.

His cock feels different as he teases her with it, and she realizes it's the condom; what a strange thing to notice. Not that she thinks on it long considering Peter's cock jabs at her clit a few times, her hips attempt to buck but his hold on her waist keeps her from moving and she gives a tiny whimper. "Peter."

Her arms bend back to wrap around his neck. "Please, I was a good girl, wasn't I?" It comes out needier than she thought it would, but she can't exactly take it back.

He looks at her through hazy eyes as her arms wrap around his neck, and a fleeting sensation of surprise goes through him at her question. He considered calling her that earlier as part of their play, but not knowing if she would like it, held back.

His arm leaves her waist to place a hand on her hip, guiding her down onto him. He groans aloud, lips parting; he can't help it, she feels so good, and his muscles retract impulsively when she is seated on him all the way. He places both hands on her hips, stilling momentarily. "Yes," he says beside her ear, "you've been a good girl." He pulls out and thrusts back in. His eyelids flutter, and he sweeps her hair off her back and over her shoulder, tending to her neck with little licks and bites while steadily rocking into her.

A shuddering moan leaves her as he slide in, feeling noticeable different with the condom; not that Lydia really cares about that.

He holds her still when all she wants to do is move, but he murmurs in her ear and her whole body feels _alive_ at the praise; a sharp gasp leaves her when he slams back in, as if he'd forced the air out of her. It feels good though.

And then he keeps at it, insistent and unrelenting and it's all that she can do to just hold on. She tilts her head further to the side, letting him have even more access, as a stream of soft sounds leaves her; more often than not his name. "Tell me more Peter," she somehow manages to get out, amazed that she can still manage coherent sentences. "Please," she whispers as she squeezes her walls around him.

He shudders as he feels her squeeze him, and then he thrusts harder in response, thrusting in to the hilt, to show her two can play at that game. "Good girls get rewards," he breathes out, lowering a hand to massage her right above his thrusting point. "You've been so good, you're going to come until you can't stand, or sit up, just lay there as I fill you up over and over again—” Peter accentuates it with a particularly harsh thrust. His other hand slips up to her throat, gently grasping it as he holds her up. "I want you screaming my name, and then moaning it, whimpering when you can't speak anymore—” he picks up the pace, thrusting relentlessly. He isn't holding her too tightly, giving Lydia plenty of room to move with him and increase the pleasure. He knows the condom will help him last longer, too. He wants to see her fall apart all around him.

She shivers at his words, another whimper falling from her lips; her arms stretch almost painfully to grab his shoulders, using that little bit of leverage to move, just enough to be counterpoint to his own.

"No one," she moans, rolling her hips. "No one's made me scream before." A strange quirk that had annoyed Jackson to no end—" _how do I know if you like it Lydia if you don't scream?"_ —she shook her head to try and dislodge the memory; definitely not wanting to think of Jackson, least of all now.

"Oh?" he asks, sounding breathless, and already feeling a little cocky about it. "I heard you scream last time I was inside you, and it wasn't so long ago..." Peter slides both hands back to her hips, gripping her firmly until his blunt nails dig in, and thrusts quicker, making sure to go deep each time as well. He notices she likes that more, and his own eyes roll back at the sensations it causes, too. "God, Lydia, yes—” He kisses her jaw, and then her neck. "You're perfect." He lays another kiss on her skin. "So perfect..."

"Oh," she nearly squeaks, having half forgotten it already in the haze of pleasure. As his thrusts pick up she arches, bowing most of her body away from him, but changing the angle of him inside her, it leaves her panting and sighing. "You seem to be..." She forces herself to breath slower. "Fucking my brains out at least."

His words against her throat somehow send her over the edge and she gives a quiet moan as she orgasms around him.

"Fuck," he hisses, slowing down to feel her pulse and contract around him. He slows for a short time, a low moan of approval in response. It's hard to resist the urge of shoving her down onto the bed and fucking her senseless, but he is gentle with Lydia, and lowers her with care. He fears upsetting her or hurting her, wanting for her nothing but pure enjoyment. Peter sits back up himself, gripping her tight and ramming into her; that much he knows she can handle. He slips a hand onto her back and pushes down, making her bow it again.

Another whimper as he changes their position again, the sheets abrading her skin and making her feel hyper-sensitive. So she twitches at his touch, arching into it, and purring under his ministrations.

He loves seeing it, though, so he glides his hands over her ass, parting her with them. He finds himself pushing slowly into her, watching with rapt attention as her body swallows him up. He groans once he's in her all the way, closing his eyes. "What will make you scream?" he asks, barely getting the sentence out. "Do I need to look you in the eyes, hm?" He parts her again, pulling out and watching it all. "Do I need to tell you you're mine and only mine?" He thrusts back in.

She feels his fingers pull her open and she feels exposed under his intent gaze and inescapable words; but it doesn't fail to fill her with satisfaction how much Peter sounds like he's falling apart as well.

Orgasm's made her limp, her body too wrung out to do more than let Peter do as he will. "I," she gets cut off with a sharp thrust. "I don't, _oooo_ , know." It's not like she's deliberately tried to get a scream, more often than not her quiet predilections has worked in her favor—especially with Aiden who loved the potential of getting caught in public—so louder sounds haven't always been a good thing.

Her hands grip the sheets again, hands tightening and releasing as Peter pounds into her; just hard enough.

Putting aside gentleness, Peter decides on a more punishing pace. This time he doesn't say anything, but he has to grip her tight to prevent her from slipping away from him. He figures, with enough practice, he'll find out what things send her over the edge. He was honest when he said he wanted her to have trouble walking, and he feels his own body reacting strongly to the depth of their position, his abdominal muscles coiling as his pleasure rises.

Some sound between a moan and a whine escapes her as he thrusts harder, hands holding her in place, but she can still move, her legs parting even more, making her feel like she's nearly spread-eagled on before him.

Of course even though he's holding her in place relative to him, their bodies still move on the bed, the sheets scraping against her nipples driving her even more towards another orgasm. " _God, Peeeteerr_." It's too much and not enough and she finds one of her hands letting of if the bedding and slipping underneath her, it's an easy enough task to find her clit and she traces her pointer finger around and around it, happily driving herself wild with her own teasing.

It's not quite working with her because he notices Lydia reaching down to pleasure herself, and a twinge of heat flares on his cheeks at that, but he doesn't want to disrupt her again either. So, instead, Peter drapes himself over her back, positioning his hands against the bed and kissing her low between the shoulder blades. He has to ease up a little, but he might as well seek his own release, except... except he really wants to see her face.

At the feel of his body pressing down against hers she arches up into him, loving the way the heat from his body seeps into hers, making her feel even more loose and pliable.

But when he slows down she finds herself frowning a little. "Peter?"

He stops completely at the sound in her voice, concern seeping in at the corners, and pulls out. "Is everything okay?"

Not matter how much he says he likes hearing her sounds, she bites her lip to keep her annoyed growl in. "I'm fine," she answers, managing not to sound too put out at least. "I was asking about you," he's slowed down during sex before, sure. But it'd felt different this time; not like his usual teasing.

Maybe she doesn't let the growl out, but he senses her annoyance, and that just makes him flip her over and pin her back down. "Well, excuse me for being concerned," he says, accentuating it by thrusting into her again at the final word. He starts back up again relentlessly, finding a fuel in their little moment, and captures her mouth with a kiss, biting her bottom lip.

At least this time only a squeak leaves her when she's abruptly flipped over. And he cuts off any real attempts at snarking back when he gives her that first thrust; clever bastard.

So she just channels all of it into their kiss, moaning into his mouth as she teases his tongue with her own.

Her hands find their way to his ass, nails digging in slightly as if she could actually control him that way, and her hips roll up with every thrust, getting him just that bit deeper.

It takes him a moment to regain the sensation from before, but he thinks it must be the same for her, too. His kiss eventually loses its rough edge, and once their lips part, he rests his forehead against hers. He stops worrying about what he can and can't do with her, finding them melding more together now than before; they move together fluidly, so much that he barely notices it now. His skin, damp with sweat, is slick against hers. His body edges closer and closer to the right feeling again, and he cups the side of her face as his lips part to breathe. "Lydia..."

Something in his movement changes, but she can't put her finger down on what. She likes it though, her grip on him softening, her actions moving more towards rolled hips and arches, a litany of sighs passing from her mouth to his.

He's looking her right in the eye and Lydia can't remember the last time she did something _that_ personal with anyone else. She wouldn't look away even if she could.

But the hand cupping her cheek is also too much a temptation to resist. Keeping her eyes on his she turns her head slightly and kisses the center of his palm softly. "I'm falling in love with you," she whispers against it.

The little moan he lets out next is pained, and his expression shifts, too. He grips the bed with his free hand, hips rutting with a little more insistence, but it breaks suddenly as his eyes shut and his body gives, release washing over him from head to toe.

He lies still, feeling loose in the bones and unable to move, and manages only the motion of kissing Lydia just slightly on the lips. His brain—he would respond, but it's so sluggish that he can't think of anything to say.

Yes, with a condom _did_ feel completely different than without, but that thought is a far off one, her mind more focused on Peter.

His whole weight's on her, holding her down; but she's always liked that, how it made her feel secure and warm. She returns his light kiss with one of her own, and finds herself giggling softly at him. Not meanly, it's just, it's kind of sweet really to see Peter like this.

She moves her hands up to his shoulders, faintly humming as she lets her fingers scratch lightly across his skin.

He breathes in and out, turning his head away from her and resting it on her shoulder. "What's so funny?" Peter manages to ask. Almost belatedly remembering, he shifts to pull out of her and remove the condom, too tired to do anything other than leave it on the bed beside them.

She rubs her fingers against his cervical bones. "You," she responds, her voice low. Turning her head she kisses the crown of his head, nosing at his hair and inhaling the smell of him.

"Me?" he asks quietly, lifting his head to look at her. Peter stares, completely serious. "What in particular?"

Internally Lydia frowns, not sure of how to phrase it and not have some sort of miscommunication. "Just...It's different to see you so, relaxed. Loose." She turns her head slightly and kisses the corner of his mouth. "I like it though." While she doesn't doubt that conniving and wit are part and parcel of Peter, this feels like the rest of him, tucked away and hidden from everyone but her.

He has been acting differently around her. With her. He knows that. He has recognized it himself. Peter kisses her back, a slow catch of lips. "You're different, too," he says afterwards, pulling back to gaze at her. He reads the changes out like a list. "I mean, leaving with me. Relying on me. Trusting me." He won't make a mockery of her feelings, though. That's a line he won't cross. He raises his eyebrows, cocking his head to the left. "Having sex with me, I understand. After all, I'm irresistible." He grins softly. A joke, of course.

A laugh startles out of Lydia, and she rolls her eyes at him as she shoves him lightly. "Sex is the easy part," she teases right back.

But her mood worsens quickly. "I know I'm different, and the stuff with you I don't regret. But everything else doesn't feel like a change for the better." The worry and stress that being haunted by her friends has brought on her, the fact that she hasn't really mourned them, or even really thought of them—well outside whenever their ghosts appear—since they left feeling like an albatross around her neck.

"There are some parts of me that I miss." She feels less confident in herself now than she used to, quieter too, less likely to speak up, at least around strangers.

He laughs, falling off of her to the side when she pretends to shove him. But her confession lowers his spirits and reminds him of the reality of their situation, why they're here in the first place. Running.

"You haven't had a chance to mourn them," he blurts out, rolling onto his stomach. He folds his forearms on the bed and glances at Lydia. "You need someone who knows more than me. Maybe we can find someone in Massachusetts. Isn't it an old witchy place? There has got to be other people like us. They can't be too hard to find. No more rest breaks. We'll drive straight there. We're in Ohio. I can get us to Massachusetts in a day. It can't be more than ten or twelve hours driving time max."

Sometimes he is afraid he did the wrong thing, letting her come with him. Maybe she should've stayed with her mother. But he wrestles with that, too. Her mother couldn't have protected her.

She manages another laugh, even if it's more subdued. "I'm certain there are always people like us _somewhere_ Peter." Rolling she gets on top of him, and leaning down she kisses him again. "I can still drive too Peter, but I'd like that. Somewhere more permanent than a hotel room."

Transience doesn't suit her well, she's discovering. It makes her feel less...connected. "Some place to live...instead of survive."

He tilts his head as he looks up at her. "We kind of can't escape that," he says, waving dismissively at the hotel room. "It comes with traveling." His demeanor turns more serious, though, and he reaches up a hand to run it down her hair. "I'd like to get you somewhere safer than this, though."

Blinking back tears—she can't remember the last time someone said that to her—she kisses him again. When she pulls away she gives faint smile. "I do believe I was promised food first." Her stomach rumbles in agreement.

"Ah, yes, food," Peter echoes, his own stomach growling in response. "Well, the hotel doesn't serve this late. But I'm sure there's a diner nearby." He wonders if coffee will keep him awake. Doubtfully, unless it's loaded with enough caffeine beyond the normal human intake. "That does, however, require getting out of bed and getting dressed."

She heaves a put upon sigh, "if we must." A soft snort escapes her as she realizes they're in almost the exact same position as this 'morning'. But this time she has hunger driving her so she kisses him one last time then climbs off and goes over to her suitcase, crouching down before digging through her clothes, looking for something she didn't really need to think about.

Prada comes and sniffs at her calf, his cool nose making her twitch. "I know sweetheart," she pauses in her search to scratch behind his ears. "We'll feed you before we go." His schedule is even more messed up than theirs, poor thing.

Peter slides off the bed after her, searching for new clothes and being unable to stop himself from looking at her backside at least once before focusing on getting dressed. He snatches up the first thing he finds, which includes his previous boxers and pants and scoops out a loose navy t-shirt sitting on the top of his things. He catches his reflection in a mirror after all of his clothes are on, realizing he really let the facial hair get out of control. "I need to shave," he says belatedly, running a hand across the overgrown stubble. A haircut wouldn't hurt either. It is still short, but it sticks out more and gets messy easily. He isn't shaving now, though.

"You do," she agrees lightly as she tugs on a dress, half wondering is she should put on underwear too—then decides yes, because otherwise they'll probably never eat. Then, before she can second guess herself, "I could do it for you. When we get back," she adds a little rushed, studiously focusing on her shoes; as if deciding which to wear is the most important thing.

It's been one of those things she's had in her 'try at least once' category, but she hadn't had anyone willing to let her do it.

He glances over at her, a little surprised by the offer, but it brings a small smile to his face. "Okay," he says, trusting her with his face and neck because it's not like she doesn't shave her legs and underarms. Things he's never shaved before, but they don't look easy.

His ready agreement surprises her and makes her strangely pleased. Dressed she gets Prada's dishes and gives him food and water, and hopes nothing too bad happens. Slipping on some flats she goes over to Peter, "I'm ready."

Peter takes her by the arm to lead her outside, feeling better whenever he has a physical grip on her. The events from earlier in the day still bother him, and he isn't sure they are behind her. They make it to the vehicle, and he doesn't have to leave the exit to find a twenty-four hour breakfast diner past the red light on a left turn, so he pulls into the parking lot and glances at Lydia, hoping she has no objections.

"Breakfast twice in one day?" She teases lightly. "You're spoiling me." Then again right now she feels hungry enough to out eat Peter. And she knows full well they'll likely have non-breakfast items as well; she hopes there's a burger.

"I'm sure they have more than just breakfast," Peter says, getting out of the car. He walks around to the hood and waits for her to escort her inside.

She's willing to admit, that while she likes it she still finds it weird that Peter always waits for her, it's just not what her sensibilities expect. "Is there a reason you always wait?" She finds herself asking as they head inside.

Peter starts at the question. "What?" he asks, his feet pausing mid-step and his hand on the glass door. He pushes ahead, though, following her in. "What do you mean?" His eyes scan for a booth.

"You wait for me," she answers."Like just then at the car, you don't just wait by it, you came to my door." Saying like that makes it sound so old fashioned, and maybe that's why she finds it strange. She recalls Stiles saying something about werewolves aging strangely, but she doesn't think Peter's _that_ old.

He is silent at first until they reach a seating area. It was simply a part of how he was raised, so he doesn't think about it much. He never really acted on it either, but it's rooted in a personal desire. one he has rarely felt. Taking his seat, he says, "I hadn't noticed. Does it bother you?"

She gives an emphatic shake of her head before looking at the menu. "No," she also says. "It's just not something most guys do these days, is all." As she peruses the options she finds herself biting her lip, wondering if she dare ask. It's not like she thinks Peter will get angry at her for asking, _that's_ certainly never happened so far; but she also knows Peter doesn't exactly like talking about certain personal things, and his age might be one of those.

Or maybe it's all a moot point. And she's realizing that she's worrying far more than she has any right to, especially over something _this_ trivial—at least it's trivial when you're being haunted by your dead friends.

Well, nothing ventured. She keeps her gaze on the menu though. "How old are you?"

He looks up at that, a small smile playing across his face. "Do you think my age has something to do with it?"

A faint blush steals across her cheeks. "I don't know, maybe. I mean I don't, technically know all that much about you." It's true she's seen parts of him she doesn't think anyone has seen since before the fire, but she knows there's more to him too.

The larger part of him doesn't want to answer her. It's not something they shared with humans for a reason, but Peter knows the idea is illogical here with Lydia.

He doesn't look at her when he says it, though, face buried in a menu.

"If you want to get technical, I was born forty-six years ago." He pauses. "Nearly forty-seven, actually."

She blinks, and looks over the rim of her menu, to see Peter staring at his own. "That's...that's not as old as I thought you were going say." It's an easy enough thing to admit.

"That's human years," Peter offers when she doesn't have a bad reaction to it. "In werewolf years I'm only about thirty-five."

Their waiter comes with their waters and asks if they want anything to drink. Lydia orders the hot chocolate with a shot of espresso, which yes, is basically just a mocha, but it's also infinitely better.

When he leaves Lydia moves on to something possibly less...worrisome. "What sort of music do you like?" It might feel like a game of twenty questions, but she really is curious; wondering if he was as into grunge as his teen self would have suggested, of if he'd just affected the clothes because they were popular at the time.

When the waiter comes by, Peter orders a large coffee with three shots of espresso.

"It evolves with the times," Peter admits easily. "I'm not one of those people who complains about the good old days. It'd be easier to tell you what I don't like than what I do."

She never thought Peter would be one of _those_ music people, but that's part of the reason for this. "Favorite movie?" She shoots back, then adds. "You can ask me questions too you know." It was fair after all.

He ignores her question in favor of one of his own. "How old did you think I was?" It only strikes him after the fact, but now he's curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the end of this chapter and the next chapter is definitely one of my favorite exchanges Helholden and I did.


	13. Chapter 13

She narrows her eyes for a moment. "I didn't have an exact age in mind. Considering how you act sometimes you could have been as young as twenty or as old as a hundred." A big guess true, but it wasn't like she had any hard data.

He snorts. "Twenty? With a nephew and a daughter?" He gives Lydia thoughtful, regarding look. "A hundred," he finally adds, repeating her. "I should've kept it a secret." Well, there is no taking it back now.

"Please I've rarely seen anyone over thirty snark the way you do." A little blush steals over her cheeks. "What, would you rather I think you an old and decrepit geezer?" She nearly continues on, but bites her tongue, because that's a Stiles thing to do, and she's better than that; and she'd rather not have a fight over something so ridiculous, if they ever got that far.

"I am an exceptionally gifted individual with a knack for not following the rules." He notices the blush, raising his eyebrows at her second comment. "Hardly," Peter adds easily. There's very little old and decrepit about this body. If you thought this is what a geezer looks like, I'd be afraid to find out what you think is a man in his prime."

"Werewolves are different," she responds blithely. "And to be fair, I'm not all that excited to see how _I_ age." After all banshee were consider fairies, and from everything she's read that means she's near immortal; which is terrifying to contemplate really.

"You should age close to normal, though there could be a slight difference," Peter responds. "Highly doubtful it would be a big one. Banshees are still at their core human. Your grandmother was one, so I've heard. You knew her, didn't you? How did she age?"

Lydia frowns, trying to remember. "She always seemed young. But..." She shakes her head, as if trying to dislodge something. "A lot of my memories of her are hazy, like...they're behind a screen that I can't quite get through."

Peter frowns. "It's not unheard of." An uneasy feeling tugs underneath the surface, though. "Why does aging concern you, anyway?"

Lucky for her their waiter returns to take their order and give them their drinks, giving her at least some time to think of an answer to Peter's question. _Did_ aging worry her? She didn't think it did.

When they're alone again she lets herself frown a little. "It's not the aging part that concerns me, it's the...possibly not aging part." She picks up her mug and takes a sip, wincing when she scalds her tongue. "I mean there's a million books with immortal characters, and they never really seem all that happy. Unless they're playing the fool," she shakes her head. "But not me." She's _done_ pretending she's not highly intelligent and ambitious.

The conversion darkens Peter's eyes. He lifts his coffee for a drink, but when he speaks again, his tone is different. "Immortality is unnatural," he says slowly. "Longevity is a different story. Full-blooded kitsunes have it. Darachs can achieve it through similar sacrificial rituals as what our dear Jennifer Blake was up to, and let's not forget those infernal doctors, but real immortality? I've never heard of it."

"It's still the same outcome isn't it? You outlive everyone and everything you care about." She stares at the whipped cream melting in her hot chocolate.

Then again, she's already lost most of them; so really she's halfway there.

"And who'd you read that from?" Peter asks, tilting his chin up with an air of arrogance to it. "Hans Christian Anderson or the Brothers Grimm?" He can't keep the sarcastic bite from his tongue.

A flash of anger flares in her, "neither." She bites out. "It's plain old _logic_."

"Logic?" Peter asks in disbelief. "This is logic? You know, of all people, Lydia, you were the last one I would've expected to come up with something this fanciful. Living forever? Never aging? It's nonsense. It doesn't exist. The oldest living thing we encountered was a trickster spirit that wasn't born with its own body but worked as a parasite, infecting others and causing chaos when it wasn't living in a void. Full-blooded kitsunes are born as spirits, but they can create the illusion of a human body to inhabit and interact with the world. That's why they live so long, Lydia. Their natural form is a spirit." He leans over the table. "You were born in a _human_ body. Those same rules do not apply to you."

"There are always exceptions though aren't there?" She answers almost angrily. "You _died_. And yet here you are, alive and well." Drawing herself up to her full height, she looks him in the eye. "And don't belittle me Peter, at the very least it should be beneath you." She expected better of him. He's more then welcome to argue his point, but it doesn't do him any favors to call something she's spent nights agonizing and worry about nonsense and fancy.

Peter is silent, his disquieted energy thrumming under the surface. He thinks he's starting to understand where it's coming from; his jaw is tight, but he tries his best to loosen it. It takes a swallow before he can speak. "That's called a loophole. There's a difference," he says, staring at his mug. He takes a gulp to avoid looking at her. It's still hot, but he ignores it. "If I didn't know any better, I would say you wanted it."

"A loophole is still an exception Peter, it's just one not very many people know about." Still his words are pretty much a slap in the fact—something he seems very good at when he puts his mind to it, or maybe it's that he doesn't.

Distraction comes in the form of the waiter with their food, who looks a little nervous as he puts their food down, and she wonders if he can feel the tension in the air; or perhaps she and Peter aren't being as quiet as they should be with their argument.

When he leaves she continues. "And I'm fairly certain I said I was _afraid_ of it, bad enough I outlived all my friends by sheer dumb luck." Her own words shock her with their bitterness. It's not like she wishes she'd died with them, but there is a resentment that somehow she managed to survive something no one else did.

And for all she knows it _wasn't_ dumb luck, if, as a banshee, she really was a 'fairy'—even with Peter's claims of her having a human body—then according to all the myths and legends she's read she's impossibly hard to kill. Which isn't exactly something she wants; even if it's the reason she survived a werewolf attack and a bombing.

Something in Peter snaps, but it's a calm and quiet snap. He stares at Lydia. "Sheer dumb luck, huh?" he asks. "Well, I guess you would know all about that. It's not like I wasn't the only survivor in a house fire that swallowed my entire family. All of them, dead. Yet, miraculously, I survived." Peter looks thoughtful. "And I actually _did_ die and come back. I'm starting to wonder if I've got credits for this immortality thing."

Part of her so badly wants to get up and storm out, because despite knowing that she _has to_ she doesn't want to deal with Peter like this, but she knows exactly what will happen to her if she does leave him. And that's worse.

So instead of responding she starts eating.

And she hopes that being with him won't always be like this, because while she knows it makes for good drama TV—lord knows she's watched enough—it makes for poor relationships.

He watches her start eating in silence, refusing to face something because it isn't something she wants. Appetite gone, he downs the coffee, still barely feeling it, and gets up from the table. He walks four feet and almost heads for the door before he realizes what might happen if he gets too far away. Angrily, hating that he cares, he walks back to the table and grabs what he ordered and takes it to one of the old fashioned bar stools at the counter, puts it down, and manages to eat what he can in silence as well.

A wall was a wall. If she wants to pretend she's the only one with feelings that can be hurt, well, it's not like it isn't something he's used to by now.

Shock fills her when Peter gets up and leaves. What the hell just happened?

Was she supposed to have responded to that? Because in her mind there was no way of answer that wouldn't have made things worse. And she doesn't want worse.

But of course she can't know unless she asks. So, wishing she had a shot of _something_ to down for some sort of false courage she gets up and goes over to Peter, taking the bar stool next to him and feeling a little self conscious as her legs dangle. She takes the time to breath deep, to at least have _some_ degree of calm, she wants to fix this, as best she can. She's not even sure if this is something she should be apologizing for, maybe later when they've figured this out.

"I didn't respond Peter, because I didn't see any good way _to_ respond." She's _with him_ and trusting him; there are conversation lines she's going to do her damn best to not cross, and making angry, snide, and disrespectful comments about the Hales is near the top of that list. She's just happy she doesn't sound too angry anymore.

It takes everything in him to calm himself as best as possible before he says anything back. He fled to finally get away from it all. She isn't the only one with loss on her hands. And he allowed himself to start to grow attached to her, to feel as if maybe he could be open with her and feel safe himself, but now she is presenting him, even if it's just speculation, with the same options all over again: loss, emptiness, loneliness. He knows only so much about banshees, but he argued so harshly because none of it has ever been challenged before; and he doesn't like what he knows being turned upside down, but even less does he like what it could mean for them.

Once he is past the anger, it becomes a quiet simmer, and then he can speak. He starts putting up his own wall. "I'll get you to Massachusetts," Peter says calmly, surprised at his own ease. "I'll help you find someone who can help." _But if it's true..._ He wipes his mouth with a napkin. "But I told you I make no promises."

She will _not_ gape, but his words hurt, and she doesn't know how to make it right again. Blinking back tears, she rests a hand on his arm. "Peter, _I'm sorry_. I just," it's sometimes amazing how hard it can feel to tell the truth, even one as simple as this, but she has to. "I was angry, and I felt like if I kept going I was going to say something insulting that would have made things even worse, something we possibly couldn't have come back from." Not that choosing to be silent apparently did her any good.

"I did it because I care about you, because I...I think I really might be falling in love with you." Saying it during sex is one thing she knows, but here, in public, it's different. "And I don't want to hurt you." She hopes that's enough, because it's all she has to give.

Inside her there's a fight on whether she should leave or stay, but she forces herself to stay, to face whatever response Peter has; she can at least do that.

"I can look past that," he answers. "Insults and things said in anger, I'm used to them. I'm responsible for many occasions where I've heard them, but a hard truth is better than a comforting lie." Peter finally turns to look her in the eye. It's not as easy he'd hoped, though. "But it's not about that. Let's say, for whatever nonsensical reason, that you're right. What kind of future do we even have together? Do you think I'd want to be a part of something like that?" He finally looks away. "It's all nice and romantic to say love is enough, Lydia, but it's not. It's never enough. You grow up, and you realize that."

It sounds harsh, but a hard truth is better. It's always better than a lie.

Well at least he's talking to her, and considering her words. "Peter," she gives a little shake of her head. "There's a difference between a harsh truth, an insult, and a truly vile comment." She's not even sure she _wants_ to try and think of what she should have said.

"And I'm _not_ going to give you empty platitudes about how it will be alright as long as we're together, and that love is enough." More tears, but this time not because of Peter. "I _know_ it's not enough," _now_ she glances away. "I loved Jackson after all, and he left me anyways." She hates it now when she cries over him, because he doesn't deserve any of her tears, but she still has moments when she misses him.

"But, I want to hope that as long as we try and talk to each other, and not argue, we can at least make something worth experiencing." She gives him a watery smile, hoping it's not just 'youthful optimism' that's making her feel this way.

Then again, she's certain even youthful optimism would have given up at their first real fight, what feels like ages ago now; and they made it through that.

For a long time, he is quiet. It seems impossible to know what to say. Bringing up Jackson makes him feel guilty for something he hasn't done yet but made clear that he might. He doesn't want to, but he also knows he doesn't want to go through what something like that will feel like.

"First loves don't last," Peter finally responds. "Everyone knows that. Even the ones that come after, people come and they go." He is more resolute towards it than her, perhaps at the expense of having it happen more than once. "And arguments are a part of life, too, just like blood and sweat and tears. You don't get to erase the bad things you don't want to deal with and paint a pretty picture with the rest."

He faces her again. "I've been locked up, for over half a year, in a ward that tortured me mentally and physically. Have you forgotten that so easily?" Peter doesn't know why he's bringing it up, but it seems important to point out. He feels worn out, stretched apart at his seams. Her insistence for what they should be able to accomplish together feels dismissive of all the trauma they've already endured. "Do I look like the picture of a stable man capable of what you want?"

While she's not happy about it, this feels better than what was happening before. "I _know_ that, but I'm also still young Peter. Sometimes...sometimes I want to just focus on the good because I'm afraid the bad will just overwhelm me and I won't ever be able to get out."

This time when she reaches out for him it's to cup his cheek. "You're not exactly stable, yes. But I don't think you'll ever truly be Peter, same with me." It does hurt a little to admit that. "You've gone through too much trauma to be 'normal' even for a werewolf.

"But that doesn't mean, right now, to me, you're not worth pursuing. And keeping." She means every word of it, Peter might be broken, but that didn't mean she was going to toss him out like garbage.

Peter doesn't say anything, eventually turning away from her hand. He doesn't know what to do, but he knows he can't just walk away right now, and that's what he meant about being responsible for her. If he does, it'll be his fault. Some feeling told him something like this would happen, and now it has, and he is forced to play a part that makes it where he can't run away. Where he has to face it as much as her.

"Why would you want that?" he asks, staring at the counter. It's so unlike him, but then, so are feelings like these. He makes an open gesture at the counter. "I don't see what I've done to make you want this."

She finds a soft smile breaking across her face at his words. Glancing around, she's grateful to note they're basically alone—she can't even see their waiter. Taking advantage of it she, quite awkwardly really because they're on stools, climbs into his lap.

When she crawls into his lap, his arms instinctively wrap around her to hold her securely and prevent a fall. And to keep her closer, because despite all better judgement of what he fears, she makes him happy in a way that none of his family, none of his schemes, and none of his plans ever did. He expects nothing from her maliciously intended, and he has never really trusted anyone before. Not completely, anyway.

Tilting her head up she looks him in the eye. "But that's just it Peter, you _haven't_ done anything. You've just been yourself. You don't act like knowing I'm smart entitles you to some part of me. You're not using me to increase your own status, or to get close to someone else. Or just for sex." At least she hopes not, although Peter's been more than honest with her, if it were just for the sex she's certain she'd know.

"You know and see just me. Lydia Martin, the woman who's beautiful, _and_ brilliant, _and_ a banshee. And a whole lot more besides." Her lips twitch at her alliteration.

Lifting herself up slightly she kisses her cheek. "Maybe you're right and in the long run we won't work out. But you see me as a _person_ and that counts for a whole lot more than your jagged edges. So I'm taking that chance."

It's a old warning, the liar can never believe others.

With her, he doesn't lie, though. It perhaps makes him more volatile than before, but only because he places everything out in the open in a way he isn't used to doing. He's not used to baring himself and not liking it when something goes wrong afterwards, and he realizes that, thankfully.

Peter brings his hand behind her head and settles his next to hers. "If I seem... unhinged or easily angry... more than usual," he dares to admit, "I'm not used to being this honest. Or open. With someone."

He hopes the rest speaks for itself.

A feeling she can't quite describe passes through her at his words, and without thought she leans in and lays a soft kiss against his lips. "Alright." She answers. "I know change can be hard and painful." Her own struggle with accepting she was, for all intents and purposes, no longer human or 'normal', while not comparable to Peter's experience still inform her.

"But," she gives a faint smile. "Think of it this way: you're just following the natural state of the universe." She gives him another soft kiss. "Entropy and change are the very foundation of the world." Which half sounds like someone high out of their mind would proclaim, but it's true.

His fingers run gently through her hair. He can't describe why he likes the way it feels, but he does. "I'm terrified," Peter admits in a quiet voice, feeling more like a child than a partner. He shakes his head. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know if I'm doing it right. Most of all, I don't know what's going to happen, and that scares me more than all the rest."

Leaning into his touch Lydia gives a soft sigh, her fingers lacing with his free hand and squeezing. "So far you've done pretty good Peter, and that's more than I think anyone else would expect of you." Not that Scott and the others had the highest opinion of him at the best of times. "And I've seen you at some of your worst Peter, I've _been_ some of your worst." It still feels...strange to talk about it so lightly, but now in the grand scheme of things done to her Peter is small peanuts compared to others—though as her 'first' she's not likely to forget it anytime soon, even if now she thinks she's forgiven him. "I'm not going to say I'll like or accept what you sometimes do Peter, and the things you say will sometimes hurt, but you've done far worse."

She leans in and humming softly noses at his ear. "As for what might happen next, right now we're _together_ and that means you're not alone in facing it. And if you feel the need to hide sometimes I can be your shelter." The words feel strangely formal on her tongue, but she still means them.

At her words, he pulls back from Lydia to look her in the eye. "I wouldn't do that again," he says firmly. Resolutely. He means the bite and everything after, hoping she understands without him having to outright say it. "Or anything like it. You understand that, don't you?"

"I've known that since I saw you at Derek's during the Alphas," she responds just as firmly, recalling the look in his eye then, how he'd bowed every so slightly to her, all but shouting his regrets. "You're by no means a _good_ werewolf," in the moral sense. "But you're a better one for having survived. And I can help you be even better," she looks away, staring at his throat. "If you'll let me." She doesn't want to _fix_ him, but she also feels like he needs someone to rein him in from time to time; certainly when it came to impulse control—her lips twitch at the thought.

Wanting to be detached and tougher than he feels doesn't work out when she can't even look him in the eyes, and so his fingers graze her cheek and then touch her chin to gently elevate her back to his level. Lydia can take on the world if she wants, and she doesn't need his help to do it. With her eyes averted, it feels like he has let her down. It feels like failure. Like disappointment. A feeling he has never adjusted to well.

"Hey," Peter says softly. "You don't need me. Because I know you, and you don't need someone else to get by. You're strong all on your own. But...wants can be just as important as needs, and wanting something...it makes life easier, I know that." His thumb slides along her chin. "We're survivors, you and I. But I'm learning," Peter has to pause, the words getting stuck in his throat. His eyes feel moist, but no tears fall. Not even when he blinks. "Surviving is not living."

As his hand tilts her chin she meets his gaze again. "You're right, I _could_ make it on my own." She grazes her own hand against his cheek. "But why would I want to? Being on my own is always lonely. And you can want some _one_ just as much. Someone to share the load with, who you don't have to hide anything from. Who helps remind me to _live_ , instead of exist." She shudders to think what she might be like if Peter hadn't pulled her out of the Nogitsune's trap, or from the deaths of her friends, or any one of a million other things she's probably forgetting.

Lifting herself up slightly she kisses his cheekbone, a strange place, but she doesn't mind. "And for me Peter, that's you." He knows her better probably than even her friends ever did, something she once found frightening, but now could be a source of comfort if she wanted it to be.

At a loss for words, Peter stares at her. He has been many things in his life, but being wanted has never been one of them. He has always had to force his way into things to be a part of something. When she puts it into such frank terms, he doesn't know what to do.

"Are you sure you're not just grateful?" he asks, a last resort to give her a way out if she wants to take it. "You know, people fall for their rescuers and therapists all the time. They call it transference."

She sighs, both exasperated and fond. "No Peter, I'm not just grateful, and I know what transference is." She damn well read enough about psychology when he was possessing her. "After all, you were my nightmare before you were my hero. I think in the emotional scheme of things they cancel each other out and we can start fresh."

"Stockholm Syndrome," he adds, but his voice carries a hint of teasing. It doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility given their history. He runs a fingertip down the side of her face. "Maybe I still have a hold over you."

"I am fairly certain," she says with a haughty sniff, a small smile dancing across her lips. "If it were either of those things we wouldn't be fighting, because I'd be going along with everything you say."

She finds herself hoping this doesn't become a _thing_ , because it might start to feel like he's trying to worm his way out of the relationship. "Admit it Peter, we chose each other. All of that trauma is behind us, we're not _over_ it by any means, but from now on things won't be that...desperate." She has no idea of anything the future has will be as _bad_ as what she's faced so far, but she finds herself certain that she's over the desperate, frantic parts.

"I can admit it," Peter answers a little sharply, perhaps on the offense on that he would lie after telling her his issues with honesty and how no one has received more of it than her. "I would choose you. If I was given the undivided choice between every woman I have ever met, I would pick you, but..." He swallows past a catch in his throat because the next part is hard to admit. His eyes focus at a point just below her face. "I haven't been in a relationship since before you were born, and I don't even know how many of them I would call relationships, Lydia."

A blush of embarrassment crosses her cheeks at his slight censure. "Sorry, I'm...not exactly used to guys being so...open." She buries her hands in his shirt, sucking up some of his warmth.

"And you know full well this is my first real, serious relationship." She loved Jackson, yes, but that had been a teenage sort of love; and Aiden, well lust had played more into that then any sort of real affection. "There isn't a template, not if you want to have a _good_ relationship. We're working through everything well so far, we just have to remember to talk to each other." Which is hard on it's own sometimes.

With her saying it, it becomes more real.

Peter wraps his arms around her back and bows his head into the side of her neck, hands pressing into her back and tugging her close to him. An exasperated sigh leaves him to lighten the mood. He can't help the feeling that she'll change her mind. Maybe one day, if not today, working with him will be too much and she'll leave in the middle of the night. If he's lucky, he'll get a short note that ends signed _Love, Lydia_. Maybe a drawn heart instead of a word.

If they make it through that and he grows old while she stays young, he can't imagine her sticking around then. It always come back to him losing her, even though he wants to stay. "What do I do?" he asks, voice low and quiet and just a touch sad. "To keep you happy."

Her hands weave into his hair, scratching slightly; but she frowns at his question. "I don't want you to keep me happy Peter. _That_ is most definitely not a relationship." She stops scratching and just cards her fingers through his hair. "Not that that means you can't make me laugh or smile. But..." It does hurt a little to say this, but she _has_ to—and how strange is it that she feels like the mature one? "But don't make me the sole focus of your life Peter. That's, that's not healthy."

And there's enough dysfunction in her life right now that, while it would be far too nice to have someone wait on her hand and foot at the moment, in the long term it would be misery.

"So just be the person you are and want to be, that's enough." Turning her head slightly she kisses the crown of his head.

The sound of a throat clearing has her raising her head to see their waiter, not looking all that happy. Still she smiles brightly at him. "Hi!" A strange, brazen, giddiness fills her. "We're kind of having a moment here, could you come back in like, ten minutes?" The waiter gapes like a fish for a few seconds, before turning around and leaving.

Burying her face in his hair she attempts to hold back her laughter. "I think we're going to get thrown out," she manages to say between giggles.

"That's not what I meant," he says with a sigh, but they get interrupted by their waiter and he isn't able to finish. Peter lets Lydia handle it, and for the time being, decides he isn't so good with this communication thing so he drops it.

"Let's get back to the hotel." Peter pulls out enough to cover their bill and tip and puts it on the counter. He ushers Lydia off his lap and leads the way out to the vehicle, keys jingling in his hand. This time he is in before Lydia, the car cranked and ready to go.

As she climbs into the car she leans over and kisses his cheek. "I do care about you, even love you some." She wishes love were an easier thing to quantify, it wouldn't leave her feeling so wishy-washy.

After she's settled in she puts her hand over his on the gearshift and squeezes.

"Okay." Peter nods as he pulls onto the street, accepting what she says but realizing maybe he needs to rein himself in for now. It's been working fine so far, his all or nothing personality in conflict with what she has presented him. Maybe in time he'll get it, so it's not too much too soon.

They drive back to the hotel in relative quiet, and Peter leads the way back to their room. He finds Prada taking a nap on the pillows and leaves him alone, sitting down to kick off his shoes. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he remembers he needs to shave. He rubs a hand over his chin. "I don't think I've ever looked this gnarly."

She follows Peter's own lead and slips out of her shoes, leaving them by the front door so she doesn't accidentally pack them. A soft giggle leaves her at the comment, "you do look quite scruffy."

Recalling their agreement before they left she heads to the bathroom, then stops at the door, "do you still want me to do the shaving?" They'd come to a resolution of sorts with their argument, but she'll still allow him to have changed his mind because of it.

"As long as you don't slice me up, I'm willing." He glances over at her pointedly, giving her a look that asks if she is up to the task. "And I still want the goatee."

"You'd heal," she answers with a haughty sniff, but it's ruined by a smile. Still she goes into the bathroom and hoists herself up onto the sink lip, it's not as wide as she'd like, but it'll have to do.

At least his kit is already there and she doesn't have to get down and hunt for it. "It makes you look like you stepped out of a melodrama," she tells him as she lathers up the cream; but if he wants to keep it, she'll do her best. "Now come here," she spreads her legs enough for him to comfortably stand between them, not missing the sexual nature of either.

Peter gets up from the mattress, shaking his head, and walks into the bathroom. He sidles into the opening she made between her legs, placing his palms on the top of either thigh. "I happen to like it," he snarks back, giving his head a slight tilt backwards to bare his throat. "I look old bare-faced."

She gives him a critical look as she rubs her hands over his neck and cheeks. "You look the same to me either way, just more or less villainous depending."

Turning slightly she rinsed and dried her hands. Picking up his razor she grasped his chin and tilted his head to the left placing the razor at the bottom of the foam and slowly dragging up. She frowned realizing she should have set aside rinse water for the razor. Thinking quickly she turned again and grabbed the water glass, filling it halfway before dunking the razor in and cleaning it. She turned her attention back to Peter and repeated the process. "This alright?"

"Yeah," he says, wanting to nod but restraining the urge to move in case she brought the razor back up. Of course he would heal, but it would also still sting. "Stop just under my chin. I'll trim what I'm keeping."

A nod and she resumes again, humming faintly to herself as she works; while this is certainly an _interesting_ thing, she's not sure if she'll ever do it again. She is grateful that Peter let her try it though.

Finishing his throat she picks up a hand towel, gets it damp, and cleans off the rest of the cream she missed. "There," she strokes his now smooth skin again. "Much better." On impulse she leans in and placed a brief kiss on his throat.

"Do you want me to get down now?" She asks as she pulls away.

"Yes," Peter says, "but first—” He never finishes because he swoops in and captures her lips a firm kiss. His hands squeeze her thighs once more, and he pushes into the little space there is between them.

Happily she arches up into the kiss, at the very least so he doesn't have to crane his head so far down. The razor clatters from her hands as she runs them up his chest, opening her mouth to him with a sigh, but grimacing slightly at the taste of shaving cream in her mouth.

She pulls away and makes a face, mouth still not liking the whole cream thing. "Ok, no more shaving kisses. Bleh." As a sort of apology she rises up again and kisses his nose.

He snorts. "Alright, move aside then." He backs enough away to give her space to slip down and gently pushes at her hip as if to tell her to scram.

She starts a little a the almost playful touch, but rolls her eyes as she leaves the bathroom. Falling into the easy rhythm of packing up her things again. Part of her finds it sad that it _has_ become a rhythm, she'll be glad that it should soon be over; even if buying a house could be a lengthy process.

He picks up the razor and leans closer to the mirror a little off to the side of her and picks up where she left off, shaving where he wants and removing some of the length where he wants to keep it with a barely there glide since he lacks a trimmer. It doesn't take him long. After so many years of doing it, a rhythm is easy to pick up and his skin isn't that sensitive.

He washes his face off afterwards and pats it dry with a hand towel, happy with the work afterwards. "There. I look somewhat normal again."

"You do look better," she agrees as she zips up her suitcase. Wandering she sits on the bed next to Prada and scratches his sleeping head. "It's strange to think we're almost there." She's lost track of the days a little as they've traveled, but twelve or so hours feels so small compared to all that.

He walks out of the bathroom, pausing at the sight of all her things packed back into her suitcase. "Why are you packing?"

She frowns, "I thought we were leaving now."

"Well, not right this second," Peter tells her, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed. He turns to look at her. "It's a long drive ahead of us, and I'm enjoying the momentary freedom of not being trapped in a car seat." That, and he is a little emotionally drained. Some recuperation time wouldn't hurt, and driving for long periods of time is tense. Glancing over at the clock, he considers the time. "We could leave in an hour. Thirty minutes if you're in a hurry."

"Well then I'm already packed," she responds as she flops onto the still rumpled sheets. "And you're right, it is nice." It does feel a little like she's spent more time in a car these past few days than she has her entire life; but she knows that's only her brain being faulty.

Absently she raises her hands above her head, lacing her fingers together and staring at them. "Tell me, tell me one of your fantasies," she thinks it only fair, she told him one of hers a day or so ago; she wants to know what's in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said I'm super proud of how Helholden and I wrote this chapter, realistic relationship problem solving!


	14. Chapter 14

"One of my fantasies?" he asks, furrowing his brow and maneuvering around until he is no longer sitting but laying on his stomach and propped up on his forearms. It's a joke, but it comes naturally above all other responses he could initially make. "I've always wanted to go to Disneyland."

Hands falling to her sides she laughs, rolling over to stare at him. "Peter," she deepens her voice slightly, trying to imitate a TV announcer. "You've finished all your homework, what're you going to do next?" Her 'serious' tone is ruined by another spurt of laughter.

When she feels calmer she reaches her hand out, not touching Peter, but letting him decided whether he wants to hold her hand or not. "You're a horrible tease" she, well, _teases_.

He smiles just slightly, only one corner quirking up as he looks down at Lydia's hand and decides, not necessarily to hold it, but to hover his hand above hers, his thumb grazing over the outer edge of her palm and her wrist. "I think I'll keep my fantasies to myself for now." The answer is more serious than his tone just moments ago. "You may not like them," he adds lightly, "and it's not like I need them."

His hand is just as much a tease as he is, a tiny shiver passing through her at the featherlight touch. Still, she also pouts, not quite sure how to take his words; other than he doesn't want to tell her. "I'm fairly certain the whole point of a fantasy isn't what you need Peter," she responds drolly. But is willing to leave it at that for now, but much like a cat or Bluebeard's wife there is an itch of curiosity to find out. How 'dark' are his fantasies that he doesn't think he can share them?

"When you were a kid what did you want to be when you grew up?" She asks instead, picking a much less charged, at least sexually, subject.

"For _some_ people," Peter replies, "they're obsessions. Of course, I've obsessed over other things for the majority of my life, so I know how that goes." Her change of topic is welcome, though. It's easy for him to answer. He's only ever wanted to be one thing. "I wanted to be the Alpha," he says, diverting his eyes back to her hand. "The head of the Hale clan. After my sister."

Splaying her fingers wide, feeling the stretch in the minuscule webbing connecting each, she turns her hand over and captures Peter's. At first she hesitates with her next question, but then recalls his preference for honesty. "Were you angry then when she had Laura? Or is it different when it's the Alpha's kids?" She doesn't think the Hales would've been so wolf-like that Talia and her husband were the only two who could procreate, but she would think that her children would still be 'special' over any other in the pack.

Peter is quiet at first, mulling over the best way to answer that. "Angry, no," he says, recalling the moment he found out. "But I knew she would love Laura more than she resented me." His hand tightens ever so slightly in her grip.

Now she's the one stroking her thumb against his skin, but for her it's to comfort and not tease. She's not quite sure what to say, any variation of 'it's alright' is pretty much a lie, so all she really has is. "I understand," and she does, a little; not that her parents divorce is comparable to his own experience.

After a brief silence she asks, "what kind of books do you like to read?" A few seconds later she clarifies: " _fiction_ books." While she'd _would_ be interested to hear about such and such a bestiary or supernatural codex, that's not quite what she's going for. In a way it _is_ just idle conversation, on the other she genuinely wants to know.

Peter frowns. "I don't read much fiction," he admits, "but intrigue and mystery are fun, especially with the occasional dash of horror. Not monster horror." He rolls onto his back. "Anything but monster horror."

She laughs, "mmm I did kind of lose interest myself in some of my favorite supernatural romance series after finding out I was one of them myself." She still has...well _had_ them, but they'd just collected dust—though she did bring her two favorites with her because she liked them _that_ much. "Fantasy in general really." Not that she read much of that in the first place, she was more of a sci-fi girl.

"I don't like reading books about us because most of the time, they're wrong and it annoys me more than anything. Plus, they're boring. 'Monster massacres town' or 'plain old human falls in love with the beast.' There are your choices. No middle ground." Staring at the ceiling, another frown marks his face. "We don't have real stories."

"I've read some supernatural loves supernatural stuff," she mentions. "But yes, I mean I did stoop to reading a banshee series," she can't believe she's admitting this. "But it was so wrong I couldn't stand it." A banshee's scream actually being a beautiful song? Guy banshees? All of the 'otherworld' stuff? It had annoyed her more than anything.

She rolls onto her side, so she can at least look at Peter. "Well maybe you should write some, wrap it as fiction, toss in a few wrong details just in case. Humans wouldn't be able tell the difference and I'm sure the supernatural community would enjoy them, or at least some of them would." Wouldn't that be interesting, Peter as an author?

Peter shakes his head against the sheets. "I'm not an author," he says, but then he's quiet as he starts to think about it. "Hmm, I don't know. Maybe that would be an easy way to make some money." He rolls over onto his stomach to face her again, coming awfully close. "I should write under a woman's pen name and market it as Young Adult, throw in a sappy romance, and make a killing. Not a bad idea. If I'm lucky, we'll get a movie deal and you can pretend to be me."

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Men can write romance too, I mean look at Nicholas Sparks. Though he can't write romance _well_." Watching _The Notebook_ had nearly been as much torture for her as Jackson. But it's still not necessarily a bad idea.

"YA author and mathematician huh? Well at least I'll appear well rounded." She leans in and kisses his cheek. "I'm certainly not going to dissuade you if you want to try. I'll even beta read." She thinks it could be fun, come up with a vaguely ridiculous premise and watch it grow from there.

"A woman's name will market better," Peter counters. "The tables have turned. Stephen Kings are a dying breed." He leans over her, settling beside Lydia on the bed. His fingers toy with her hair as his tone becomes softer. "Everyone wants a strong female heroine to save the day."

"That's because women are sick and tired of reading about male heroes in basically everything and being ignored." Her eyes close and she nestles into his side. "But if you do chose a pseudonym at least make it a good one. And good characters too," her own mind is already firing ideas.

She wraps an arm around him. "I seriously think you should at least try." Her hand begins rubbing up and down his back. "Maybe you'll discover you like it." Her lips twitch in a smile. "And at least this way I might have some peace and quiet while I do homework." She's teasing, of course; she knows if she asked for it he'd give her all the quiet she wanted. But it's an amusing and almost comforting image of the two of them sharing a workspace, quietly doing their own things; but still together.

He laughs slightly. "Did what I say sound like a complaint?" He nudges his nose against her cheek, closing his eyes. "It sounds like you." Nudging her ear with his nose, he runs his hand over the other side of her face. "I could write about you," he whispers, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone as he kisses the other cheek. "I'd still be in that place if it wasn't for you." His thumb reaches her lips, a delicate crawl along the bottom.

Part of her wants to be glib, but the rest of her is touched. "And _I'd_ still be there if it wasn't for you." She gives him a soft kiss. "We seem to get each other out of situations like that. But," her soft smile gains a teasing edge. "I think you're just trying to curry favor. Flatterer." Another kiss, this one much more of a smooch really. "I do believe it's acceptable as long as the love interest's based on you." She arches an eyebrow.

He kisses her back, a slow touch of lips, and then climbs on top of her. "I hear love triangles are very popular." He captures her lips again and runs a hand down her side, bunching up fabric as he slides it back up. "But you'll pick me in the end." Another kiss, this one a bit more heated. "Because we'll always come back to each other." He presses his lips into her jaw and goes lower along the path of her throat, a hand of his passing over her breast above the material.

She arches under him, giving a pleased hum. "As long as you don't do much mysterious pronouncing," she declares, slipping her own hands under his shirt and smoothing across his warm skin. "Or lurking," this time it's a tease.

"Because we work well together, you're not afraid to push me. And I'm just not afraid of you." She presses a knee up against his side, foot sliding in between his knees.

He hums as well, feeling her hands on his skin. "I could be your professor," Peter continues, moving down her neck with little bites and kisses. "Full-time student by day." He kisses lower, his thumb circling her breast through the fabric. "Action fighting, brilliant mystery solver by night." His hand leaves her chest and finds her leg by his side instead, running up her thigh beneath her dress. "They think I have the formula, but you made it. They kidnap me, so you rescue me, and we bond as we escape together." He comes back up to kiss Lydia on the mouth, deepening the kiss until their lips break apart. "But a dashing young military man, who gets caught up in your endeavors, tries to court you." Peter tuts above her. He shakes his head. "It doesn't work out."

He slips down her body all of a sudden, both hands under her dress and sliding up her thighs to grip her underwear. He pulls them down and off her legs, kissing skin as he goes. "These are a waste of time," he murmurs, more to himself than her, as he holds them up before throwing them aside. His head disappears under the short edge of her dress, his mouth covering her and tongue slipping between her folds. She still tastes like him, like sex, and he growls into her, curling both arms underneath her legs and tugging her closer.

Any and all snappy replies she might have made flee her mind when Peter starts eating her out, his growl sending shivers through her and making her legs fall open wider.

Her hands yank her skirt up, giving her access to Peter's head, one of her hands grasping his hair tightly while the other clutches at the pillow next to her head. Arching into him she moans softly. "Right there," she sighs, rocking her hips slightly.

"And these..." she gasps. "...I know you'll like my good panties." I didn't make sense to wear her nice ones when she just spent most of her time in a car. She moves from rocking her hips to grinding herself against him, chasing that orgasm he seems intent on giving her. " _Peeetteerr_."

Her hand in his hair sends prickles down his scalp, and he follows the guidance of her words and moves against the spot she likes. Peter just hums in agreement, sending reverberations against her, instead of responding with words. Keeping one arm around her leg, he teases her slick opening with a light brush of his finger up and down as his mouth sets a focus right above it. He removes his hand a moment later, lapping at her with the fullness of his tongue.

She whimpers, breath coming in pants as he teases her. " _More_ ," the heels of her feet dig into his back. "So close."

Hooking both arms firmly around her again, he presses hard as his mouth makes quick work of her once more, moving his face up and down to emulate the earlier grinding of her hips. He lets himself be a little rougher with her since she seems to like it anyway, and his right hand, gripping into her thigh, releases it to splay over her stomach and press down.

Lydia's whole body tenses as she orgasms, and while she _knows_ one can't really see stars it half feels like she does.

Her whole body falls limply back onto the bed, an occasional twitch of pleasure still passing through her. " _God_ ," all she can do is stare at the ceiling, not enough energy in her body to do anything else. "Keeps getting better and better."

Loving the taste of her, he savors the moment even after she goes still. Her reply actually makes him chuckle, and he kisses her gently one more time before crawling up her body and settling over her. He returns to her neck, cupping her on one side while trailing his lips along the other, rocking his hips into hers to add stimulation to his erection through the material of his pants. "I need to wear you out," he teases lightly against her throat. "So you can't run away again. Your legs will be too wobbly."

The barest hint of a whine leaves her as his jeans rub against her still sensitive slit, the fabric abrading her clit just enough to be both pleasurable and painful.

While movement of his lips are slick from her own juices and she finds herself moaning as they slide down her throat. "I thought," her breathing is still irregular, chest heaving in a probably enticing matter against his as she tried to get herself back to normal. "Wolves liked a good chase?"

She manages to get some feeling, as well as movement, back in her arms and they slip under Peter's shirt again; occasionally she thinks she'd just like to lie on him for a day, let that heat seep into her and relax every muscle in her body.

"Maybe," he answers, stilling above her. She seems tired, so Peter doesn't push it. He lets out a small sigh and rests his head against her chest, trying to focus on calming his own libido.

Her nails dig lightly into his skin, not to do anything really, but just because she can. Feeling that usual pang of annoyance that she wouldn't be able to mark him up the same way she would one of her human boyfriends. Not unless he's willing to let her experiment on him with non-lethal wolfsbane. "What I thought," she murmurs.

As his heat begins to fill her she finds it hard to keep herself awake. "I'm," she yawns. "Making that up to you...later. Don't have to wake me up when we leave." She knows she'll sleep through all of the carrying if he lets her. "But," another yawn. "Am driving some later."

A contented smile crosses her face as she lets sleep take her.

Noticing that she's falling asleep, he lets it take her before carefully moving himself out of her arms. It feels a little weird to dress her while she's asleep, but he also doesn't feel comfortable letting her travel without panties on, so he slips her previous ones back onto her and straightens out her dress. By then, his arousal is gone and he finishes packing his own things.

Thanks to his strength, he carries all of their things plus her to the vehicle in one trip without breaking a sweat, turning in their card keys along the way. He slips Lydia into the backseat so she can lay out and buckles her at the waist, tucking a soft jacket under her head for a pillow. He closes the door quietly to not wake her.

Peter climbs into the driver’s seat after that and sets his eyes to the road. East is their destination, and he looks at the map briefly to get an idea of which highways to follow. Turning the music on low, he drives in relative silence as Lydia sleeps peacefully in the backseat.

The bump of a pothole wakes Lydia up, and for a moment she doesn't know where she is. Frowning she sits upright and realizes her confusion is from the fact she's in the backseat of Peter's car.  "Hey," she mutters sleepily as she runs a hand through her hair. At her voice Prada's head appears between the front seats and his tongue lolls out.

With a soft huff she reaches out and scratches his ears. "Hope you've been good and kept your daddy company." It does feel a little strange to refer to Peter that way, but she also likes it.

Peter looks up through the rearview when he hears Lydia. "You're awake," he says. It's still dark out, but they've got a few hours behind them already. A part of him initially smiles at her teasing towards Prada, who had been good the whole time, trotting out with Peter to the car and not making a fuss during the ride. He had fished out one of Prada's doggy treats for him while Lydia was asleep. "He's been good," Peter says, thinking it's ridiculous for him to feel his chest tense up afterwards. It's just a dog.

She yawns. "Mmm most of the way there." She corrects; certain if she isn't careful she'll slip right back into sleep.

At her urging Prada leaps from the center console into her lap. "Good boy," she murmurs, digging her nails into his fur and scratching vigorously.

"So where are we now?"

"Pennsylvania," he answers. "Near the edge. It won't be long before we're in New York, but we won't be in New York for long. It's a short distance through there."

"Do we want to switch there and I can drive?" On the other hand... "But I want to find an open coffee shop if possible," she yawns. "Get some caffeine in me."

"We can turn off on the next exit," Peter offers. "It's just ahead."

Two minutes later, they reach it. It's a small area, but one side has a Starbucks, the other a Dunkin Donuts, and there are a handful of convenient stores.

"Your pick," he teases.

"Starbucks," it's not a very hard decision; and she likes their coffee better, and their tea too.

Following her answer, he pulls in and parks it. "I need to stretch," Peter says, stepping out. "I'll take Prada if you'll snatch me a sandwich and a drink, too. Or a bagel. Whatever they have."

He passes some of his cash to Lydia and clicks his tongue, and Prada hops out. Peter reaches over the seat to grab the leash and attach it to Prada's collar, but the dog stays close anyway.

She takes the cash but when she gets out of the car she shakes her head. "Peter, I don't think we can be that far apart." Not without risking her 'friends' returning, and considering what happened the last time they were around she's just not willing to risk it. At all.

"Oh." He didn't think the short distance would matter anymore. He looks down at the leash he already attached to Prada's collar. "Well, Prada's coming in, too."

She flushes a little, "sorry. I just, I don't want to risk it again." Going over to him she takes his free hand. "It was terrifying." She squeezes his hand.

"It's okay." He leans over, and with a motion that feels oddly natural, kisses her temple. "I forgot. I thought it wouldn't bother you anymore." Better not to find out here, though. "Hopefully, they like dogs."

It gets a ghost of a smile out of her. "Thanks." She turns her head and gives him a brief kiss of her own. "And it'll always bother me."

She leads them inside where the barista behind the counter looks half asleep herself. Granted according to the clock on the wall it's nearing three AM, so Lydia can commiserate. As politely as she can she clears her throat.

The barista starts, then blushes in embarrassment. "Sorry. Uh, what can I get you?"

"I'll have a dirty chai and," her gaze goes to the half full pastry cabinet. "One of the pumpkin scones."

He doesn't know what to order, so he blurts out the first thing that most places have. "House blend coffee. Biggest size you've got." He glances over at the same pastry cabinet. No sandwiches. "Two everything bagels."

Biting back a smile Lydia pulls out the cash Peter handed to her and adds. "Mine's a sixteen ounce." She pays and then they grab their food and she takes him to one of the little seating areas. "Should you be drinking coffee? I would think you'd want to sleep."

"It takes a lot of coffee for me to even feel it." He sits down across from her, takes his drink, and starts downing it. Half of it is gone when he places it back onto the table. "And earlier," Peter adds, "I meant I didn't think the apparitions of your friends would bother you again as in show up, but I'd rather not find out again while we're on the road."

He knows she wants a solution as much as him, so saying they need to figure it out sooner rather than later doesn't need to be said.

That made sense, caffeine was a drug like any other.

"Oh," taking a sip of her own drink she shrugs. "I would have thought they wouldn't leave me alone until they get what they want." She gives a little shrug; of course she doesn't want to go back to Beacon Hills, and she doesn't want them around period. With her free hand she took Peter's again. "I feel the same though."

He looks down at her hand, which is clasping his. It takes him a moment before he meets her eyes. "What do they want?" His voice isn't as steady as he'd like.

"To go back to Beacon Hills," she reminds; not as annoyed as she thought she'd be that he forgot. Setting down her drink she breaks off some of her scone and eats it.

"That's it?" Peter thought there would be a grand plan somewhere in the reasoning. He knows they tried to lure her back, but why? Beacon Hills isn't the finale. "You don't know what comes next? They haven't said or...given you a hint? A feeling?"

She shakes her head. "No, only that I need to go back, according to them."

Peter nods his head in silent acceptance. "That won't happen," he says calmly. She left for a reason. Freeing his hand from hers, he butters one of the bagels. "Do you think if we get far enough away, they won't be able to reach you anymore?" It's almost an offhand question, the way he asks it. He bites into his bagel, looking at her.

"I don't know. We were more than halfway across the country when they possessed me." She shivers. "And short of buying a plane ticket to somewhere across the Atlantic, or driving down to South America there's no real way to test it." She would love if that were the case though; buy a ticket to a country halfway around the world and have all her problems solved.

She takes another sip of her chai to try and warm herself.

"You're up for driving now?" he asks next, changing the topic to get her mind onto something else. "I could go for longer, but if you're offering." He cocks an eyebrow.

Her lips twitch behind the rim of her cup. "I'll drive." It'll give her something to focus on instead of endless 'what ifs'. She takes another chunk of her scone.

He accepts the answer by eating the rest of his bagel and starting on the second. Tiredness of being in the car is becoming evident. His fingers twitch to move, and his whole body feels like it's jittery with the desire to move.

Prada sits quietly on the floor beside them, prowling occasionally around their feet and sniffing as if for scraps. "I don't know how often you feed him, but he seems hungry."

"He's just greedy," she replies. "Mom...mom used to feed him things from her plate at the table. Even though the vet told her not to." She finds herself gulping down the rest of her chai—cold chai was not good chai in her mind—and taking another chunk of her scone. "It probably doesn't help that his schedule is as messed up as ours is right now."  It will be so nice to be asleep and awake at 'normal' times once they've settled down; not that she regrets this pell mell dash from Beacon Hills.

"Certain foods are harmful to dogs. Some can kill them. Pork, for instance." Peter finishes his second bagel and wipes off his hands, scooping up Prada from the floor and placing him in his lap, scratching behind his ears. "Especially in a dog his size. The vet should've told her that or given her a list at least."

The oddly protective feeling he now has over a dog is... strange, but not entirely unwelcome.

" _I_ had the list. He is ostensibly my dog." And actual fact now, she guesses. "I did my best to make sure he didn't have what he wasn't supposed to. But that didn't stop mom from trying to feed him." She rolls her eyes. "I'm pretty sure he'd be very overweight if it weren't for me." There is a little anger in her voice; she loved her mom, but you'd think she'd be a little more careful with her pets.

Peter smiles. "No wonder you took him with you."

"Well, and he is _my_ dog." She might have been given him as a present, but she'd been the one who cared for him and took him to the vet, and basically everything. "He sort of is like a kid to me." Strange to say, but it's truth.

Peter stares at her for a little while longer before letting Prada off his lap. "How long do you want to stay here?" he asks.

She finishes her scone and shrugs. "I'm ready to go when you are."

"Ready," he says, standing up and taking Prada's leash off his wrist. He tosses her the keys before grabbing his cup with his newly freed hand.

A huff of laughter leaves her as she stands. At least managing to not fumble the keys when she catches them. She picks up her trash and studiously sorts it making sure the things that can be recycled go in the right containers—the potential downside to moving to the east coast she knows, less recycling than she's used to.

Outside she unlocks the car and takes the driver’s seat, grumbling good naturedly about having to adjust the seat. She sets the radio on a band surf, she might as well start picking new stations to listen to; and it might be a good idea to find out the local NPR station too.

Peter releases Prada into the backseat and takes the passenger side next to Lydia. While he isn't sleepy, he is exhausted, and he adjusts the seat back before turning toward the window and closing his eyes.

Lydia drives for a few hours, letting the steady flow of music and commercials sooth her.

At least until an all too familiar twinge in her belly has her groaning, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as her cramps become more noticeable. There aren't any nearby rest stops, but she soon comes across a gas station; and desperately prays they'll have tampons and midol—both things she'd forgotten to pack because her period had kind of been the furthest thing from her mind then.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NGL folks, this is definitely one of my favorite sex scenes...

Her groan wakes him up. Groggily, he blinks before sitting up to face her. "Is everything alright?"

"Just cramps," she gets out, sounding like she's not in a lot of pain. "Periods are the worst." But it seems that she doesn't have to worry about the unprotected sex they had. "I just need to go in and get some stuff." She just hopes she can be nice to the clerk, she tends to get snappy when she's in this much pain.

"Ah," he replies, and then, "Wait—” He reaches out for her hand, thinking that she might deny any pain if he asks, and wraps his fingers with hers for a moment. He saps away whatever pain she feels with the touch of their skin, a gesture he can't say he's done for many. After it passes, he draws their hands up to his mouth and places a small kiss on her knuckles. "There," Peter says, lowering her hand back to her and letting go of it.

As the pain leeches from her she sighs in relief. "Thank you," she takes his hand up again and kisses it. "Now come on, I still need stuff." It'll give her a chance to stretch her legs too.

"As you command," he teases, getting out of the car on his side. Peter walks around the hood to follow Lydia inside. Prada will be fine on his own for a moment.

At least with gas stations Lydia doesn't need to wander a million aisles to find what she needs. So she quickly grabs a travel pack of tampons and a bottle of midol—she'd like to think there would be times when Peter wouldn't be there to take her pain.

That done she sidles back up to Peter, "you should probably buy some more condoms too." She has no idea how many he bought when they were still in Beacon Hills, but she's sure they'll run out soon. And really, you could never have too many condoms. The two of them might so far only be having sex once at a time, but she could easily imagine putting Peter's stamina to the test and seeing how long they could go; she squirms at the thought.

He raises his eyebrows at that, but then turns to look at her. "If you insist," he teases, rounding the next corner. He grabs a grey box near the top of a decent count, making sure it's a brand that will fit him.

As they make their way to the checkout, Peter leans toward her, adding in a low voice, "You know, gentle sex and masturbation can alleviate cramping in those particular muscles. Among other things." He glances at her out of the corner of his eyes. "In case you ever want to try it."

They reach the counter and he puts the condoms down, wondering what kind of look they'll get once she places the tampons and midol beside them.

She squirms again and fights a blush as she sets her things next to his. "Horrible," she hisses; knowing the cashier doesn't care, but Lydia does.

Problem is though that Lydia's found she tends to get really horny at the start of her period, so sex right now kind of sounds fantastic; on the other hand Peter doesn't need to be any more smug than he already is.

Fighting the urge to drag Peter off to a dark corner she smiles as best she can at the cashier, her craps beginning to return with a dull pain.

"Honest," Peter corrects her as he pays for their things. Smiling at the clerk, he puts a hand on Lydia's back and leads them both towards the door. "And exploratory."

The only thing she minds about the hand is the fact that the heat of it sinks into her, making some part of her feel languorous. "I've never..." Her blush returns with a vengeance. Jackson had been about as 'guy' as you could get about menstruation, and Aiden, well he'd taken to avoiding her once he smelt the blood—like she was going to bite his head off or something.

"Do _you_ want...to try that?" Clarity, they need to be clear. But she has to admit she doesn't think blood would be a turn on. It couldn't be a werewolf thing, a Peter thing? One of those fantasies he wouldn't talk about earlier?

"Well, I've never either," Peter admits easily, stopping once they are outside to look at her so they can be direct. He narrows his eyes in a thoughtful manner, but his voice drops like he's sharing a secret. "Women get absolutely feral about it."

He pulls back, grabbing on his door handle. "You would think it's the plague, the way some people act about it. Men and women. It's just a little blood." He pauses to look at her, tilting his head and shrugging noncommittally. "Nothing I haven't been covered in before."

You'd think she was a complete virgin the way Peter gets her to act when he talks about sex; it's both embarrassing and kind of a turn on.

 _Oh yes_ , she's never seen it for herself but she realizes she knows all about Peter and blood. At least this time she manages to hide her squirm by climbing into the car; but not at all doubting that Peter catches her change in scent.

"Not here," she says it quickly, she's still not all that sure about it; but she know she'd rather not have sex in a brightly lit parking lot like this—the courtyard had been _different_ , even if it was the same idea.

Everything about her is heightened now, and Peter catches that. His suggestion has affected her from the bright blush of her cheeks to an overall change in the signals her body gives off to her scent.

He arches an eyebrow. Maybe surprised by her quick agreement. There is definitely some surprise, but he is more turned on by it himself. He starts up the car, but brings a hand up to his face and carefully brushes his thumb along the corner of his mouth as if cleaning up after dinner. He pulls his hand away and inspects it, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "I thought there was a slight... tang to your taste when I went down on you. Almost... metallic." He drawls the last word, letting it linger on his tongue.

Taking the steering wheel in hand, he backs the car out as he glances over his shoulder. "Where to?" he manages to get out smoothly, wanting nothing more than to pin her down right here, but the mess.

She knows, _knows_ he's doing it on purpose; but it doesn't stop her from biting her lip, trying to keep in the whimper that wants to escape.

"Just...just somewhere out of the way." She slides her hands between her legs, ostensibly to keep them from doing anything. Except it has a bit of the opposite effect, and she fights not to moan as her fingers brush her panties.

"Okay." He drives through the lights until the road darkens; it's not long for morning, and he finds an empty parking lot of a closed shopping center. Unless she protests for a hotel, he damns the possible mess and knows he can clean it up with a shirt, anyway. "Outside or inside?" he asks, putting it in park. "There's a blanket in the back." For either option, really.

Like they have a mind of their own her hands are still teasing her and it's wonderful and unbearable. "Out...outside." But she'll be glad for the blanket, something to keep her from the cold ground or hood of the car.

He takes a deep breath and gets out of the car, thankful that he parked near the edge next to the trees. Peter walks around to her side first, though, and opens her door and holds his hand out to her.

For a few seconds she stares at his hand like she's never seen anything like it before. Then, because Peter _had_ to know what she was doing, she pulls her hands away placing one in his; fairly certain her whole body is pink at the realization said hand is slick and slightly red-black. Yet there's also something darkly thrilling about it; almost an unspoken dare to see how he'll react.

His eyes glance down at her hand in his; slick, the scent half arousal and half the familiar iron tang of blood. He is silent at first before he tuts at her. "Already, Lydia?" It comes out a rough whisper, and then he tugs on her arm, catching her as she falls into him from the drop of his higher than average vehicle.

Once she is steady on her feet, he takes her hand and leads her to the hatchback trunk, grabbing the rolled up blanket he has in the back for emergencies. Prada, perching on the console, cocks his head at Peter in curiosity before Peter shuts it.

He leads Lydia to the first row of trees into a soft and dry patch, unrolling the blanket and laying it out before he turns his attention back to her. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, having noticed her nervous flush and uncertainty. He steps closer until they are almost chest to chest. "Remember," Peter whispers softly, trailing the back of a finger from his clean hand against her cheek, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"Yes," she finds herself moaning softly as she falls into his arms.

There are nerves coiling in her gut sure, but she also hasn't been one to shy away from the new. So she tilts her head up to look him in the eye and raising up her dirty hand she begins to lick it clean, she knows the taste of her arousal well enough, but the added tang of her blood adds a mustiness to it that is strange. "I want to try," and she reasons that if they can't manage sex then she could at least masturbate. A shiver at the thought of him watching her intently as she did so passed through her.

His look of shock is clear; he hadn't expected her to go as far as taste herself like that when she's never even had sex like this, but he's silent aside from his breathing. Taking her by the waist, he leans in to kiss her, a slow drag of his lips against hers. Peter pulls her toward the blanket until they are on top of it. His lips part to deepen the kiss, a musty iron tang on her tongue, as his hand snakes down her side and under her dress. He tugs down her underwear with one hand, getting them down only a few inches before fumbling with his belt and easing through the button and zipper. They fall, and he steps out of them, his foot pushing them out of the way and his hands capturing her face on either side as he kisses her more roughly than before.

Eagerly she throws herself into the kiss, giving as good as she gets. At his touch on her ass she wiggles smiling as she tangles their tongues. When he gets rougher she moans, stepping into him and pressing herself directly against him, smiling again at the press of his cock through her dress.

Something about the scenery, the scent of blood, and his arousal sends his brain into an animalistic mode. Despite the chill, Peter is naturally warm, and he pulls back long enough to tear off his shirt and throw it down and rids himself of his boxers, too. Grabbing Lydia by the ass, he tugs her back and presses her against his erection. Teeth bite down on her lip, and he grips her hips, lowering himself to the blanket knees first and tugging her down with him.

She gives a soft gasp as he bites her lip, but it's quickly swamped by the sensations of him grinding against her.

And when he tugs her down to him on the blanket she goes, relaxing against him as his heat banishes the night's chill. "Peter," she squirms in arousal as another dull throb pulses through her. "Please."

She was feeling herself up the ride here, and for once, he doesn't want to tease her with foreplay. Pulling her dress over her head, he tosses it aside and lays her down on her back against the blanket and tugs her underwear off all the way.

Placing his hands on her knees, he parts them gently and moves to settle in between. He uses one hand to prop himself up as he captures her lips again, the other hand going between them to stroke his cock as he aligns himself with her. He rubs the tip between her folds, groaning as he finds her slicker than normal, and pushes in slowly.

Despite her wetness, she feels tighter. Another sound, more of a growl, rumbles in his throat at the sensations it causes.

Her hips move as the tip of him rubs against her, teasing like always. But then he begins to slide in and she moans again, her nails scrabbling at his back, digging deep. And when he growls it pulls a needy whine from her. It's like he's fighting her to even get an inch in and the pleasure that comes with it overwhelms any lingering pain she might have felt.

" _Yes_ ," she pants against his ear. Her hips rocking, trying to help him slide in deeper. "Mine," her nails dig even deeper and she can feel his skin try and heal around them. "Give me what's mine Peter." It's a demand for once.

Here under the stars and moon, bleeding away another possible life she feels like some pagan goddess, rutting with her bestial consort. And she _likes_ it.

Her legs wrap around his waist squeezing tightly as she licks a path up his neck. " _Mine_ ," she growls against his ear.

Her nails cut and sting, and every inch squeezes tight. Peter wanted to be gentle with her; he didn't want to hurt her, but her demand and her own tiny inflictions of pain cause him to thrust hard, seating him completely inside her with a gasp he can't contain.

Her delirious shout echoes his gasp as he seats himself fully, it's _perfect_ and not enough at the same time.

He loves it. He loves the intimacy of having something no one else has had before from her, the forbidden taint of her blood coating his skin as they take pleasure of each other out here under the moon and in the dirt and surrounded by the natural world. A willing partner in a taboo act; it's something about the way in which most people avoid it that makes him want it more, a desire seated in bending, and sometimes breaking, the socially acceptable rules.

There is something so private about it, though. That she let him have this with her. Something she's shied away from. Something she hasn't share with anybody else.

No answer comes from his lips right away, but his eyes glow blue at her insistence of _mine_ . He pulls back to stare at her before setting his hips to thrust into Lydia with a rough and quick pace. Leaning over her, he keeps his body close to her for touch and warmth. " _Yours_ ," he says with a hiss against her ear, feeling canines turning into a sharper point. "Anything. _Yours_." He buries his face into her neck, holding her tightly with one hand against her hair as his hips begin to roll instead of thrust due to their closeness, his other hand braced against the ground to give him leverage.

The light from his eyes is enthralling in its own way, proof of the animal nature that his humanity hides. She stares into them as he begins moving in earnest her own hips moving to meet his, the slaps of flesh on flesh sounding almost painfully loud and yet right in her ears.

When she feels his mouth press against her neck with the rest of his face she arches into it, wanting to feel those fangs in her neck, vampire like, impaling her in a different way. They're so close now that all she can do is cant her hips while he moves, creating a chaotic rhythm that matches the wildness growing in her.

"Yes," she cries out, body arching—half wishing she were wearing her heels so she could drive them in as much as her nails. " _Everything_ , Peter. Give me everything." She turns her own head, mashing her nose and mouth against his cheek. "My monster." She drags her teeth across his cheek, not heard enough to break skin, but enough that he should feel it. "My wolf."

 _My monster_ . He loses himself in the moment, blindly seeking pleasure as their bodies rock feverishly together under the gliding touch of the breeze and moonlight. _My wolf_ . He feels her teeth latch onto his jaw, and he closes his eyes and lets her get away with it. With a single-minded drive, his focus is on _claiming_ her. Might have turned it around on her, clamping his own teeth to her neck to hold her in place for grabbing him so boldly in another time. This isn't it.

It doesn't matter to her anymore that he's the one who attacked her, used the very animal nature she's trying to pull out of him to try and turn her. Now she _wants_ it, knows she can handle it, take it. Wants to feel his teeth sink deep and his claws pierce.

She's not the foolish girl who walked out onto a lacrosse field alone in the middle of the night. She's the banshee, the woman who should have died so many times over the past year and a half and survived them all. And so has he. Setting her teeth into his jaw she growls herself, feeling more like a werewolf than a banshee.

Pulling her head away she takes one of her hands from his back and weaves it into his hair, using the grip to pull his head up so she can stare into his wolf eyes again. "Don't deny me. My Alpha," it comes out more of a submissive whine, but she's also so close to the edge of orgasm that she can be submissive; there'll be other chances for her to be the only one in control. For now there's only wildness and pleasure.

She pulls his head up, her fist tight in his hair. Through the reflection of her eyes, Peter sees the cold glow of his own. At her demand, he cranes his head back, teeth gritting until his jaws part as canines extend into their full form and bones crack and break as they realign themselves into a different form. Claws shoot from his nail beds, one hand piercing the blanket and the other scraping against her scalp.

Through it all, he rolls his hips into hers, the motions sometimes becoming erratic until his shift is complete. He grasps underneath her knees, unhooking them from his waist and pinning them higher over his arms as he arches over her. Setting his palms against the ground and digging in his claws, the new position allows him to really rut into her like a wild animal.

He drags his teeth along her neck, and while he doesn't bite, he clamps them down on either side of her throat just below her chin as he slams his hips into hers, driving deep each time.

She cries out as he gives her exactly what she wants, almost—because it's _Peter_. In their new position all she can do is take what he gives her, and she takes gladly. A stream of her own animalistic sounds pouring from her as she orgasms.

Her body goes well and truly limp, in a way submitting to him even more fully than her earlier words. Her head arches back, giving him unimpeded access to her neck as the sounds of him slamming into her grow even more lewd now that there's more of her fluids to smooth the way.

The hand she'd had in his hair falls away, blindly searching and fumbling for the hand she knows is there in the blanket. Instead she finds his forearm, and grips it loosely—she couldn't grip anything tightly even if she wanted to. " _Peter_ ," she mewls; wanting to take it all, but unsure if she really can—and wanting to anyways.

Even in his new form, he feels a familiar tightening sensation of reaching release, but it's not the same. The wolf side unwilling to cease thrusts as much as the human, yet he feels himself growing, expanding. Distantly, he realizes what is happening once there is no stopping it.

Some small part of her frowns when it realizes there’s something different this time; something _more_. At first it hurts a little and she bites back the urge to cry out in pain, her body isn't supposed to stretch that way.

His body surrenders his seed for the first time, but Peter keeps a gentle thrust going despite his body's urges for stillness in small hope that the pleasure of the movement will make it easier for her. He curls his hand along the side of her cheek as he buries his face against her neck.

"Relax, Lydia," he urges through the sharp canine teeth in his mouth. "Please—” His hips falter again, body surrendering more, a groan escaping him. He finally stills, their bodies locked together, unable to move anymore.

Except her body does, and as she feels Peter orgasm inside of her he's telling her to relax, as if it hurts. But it doesn't hurt, not anymore. That extra thing is now an insistent and unceasing pressure against her g-spot, and her body finds new strength in it to cling to Peter as sensations she's never experienced before crash through her, driving her to orgasm faster than she thought possible. " _Peter_!" His name turns into a scream as she comes, a strange sensation passes through her and at first it feels like she's going to pee—not at all the sort of thing she wants to bring into her bedplay—but as her orgasm keeps going and she feels more fluids than she thought possible erupt from her she realizes that he made her _squirt_ , something she hadn't even thought she could do and...

A whimpering moan leaves her, because it doesn't feel like this orgasm is ending like it should; in fact it feels like it's _growing_ . Her body arches under him as best it can, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she orgasms _again_ , whining as she rubs herself against Peter, seeking more of, and an end to, it all.

As hers continues to grow, his does as well. He finds himself going through the shock of what feels like multiple orgasms, and he can do nothing but rest his face against her neck and chest, nibbling and kissing her exposed skin. Used to the human way of sex rather than this one, it's new to him, too. As soon as he feels the loss of one release, another wave hits him and he comes again, and he doesn't know how long this lasts. It's both strange and exhilarating; he knows, of course, what it is, but he never did it with anyone before.

"Mine," he whispers against her chest with a growl, dragging sharp teeth a moment later. "My Lydia," he murmurs, this time full of more emotion and softer. His last orgasm hits him finally, and he releases the hook he has on her legs, resting weakly on top of her.

Slowly, the transformation fades away, returning him to his natural state. Panting now, he trembles all over in shock of what just happened.

All she can do is moan softly at his words, though they fill her with warmth; her body and mind to wrung out and exhausted to do much else. Her own orgasm finally tapers off as he slumps against her. The heat of him making her feel even more like a limp noodle.

"Peter?" She manages to get out as he shakes. She _wants_ to be concerned, but see above re: mind and exhaustion.

"I'm okay," Peter murmurs, taking his last bit of strength to roll off of her. "Are you...?" He glances over at her, heaving in a deep breath, unable to finish his sentence. His hand reaches out for hers, limp but seeking.

She sighs in disappointment when he rolls off, the cold starting to seep in. Flinging her hand out she grabs his and gives a weak squeeze. "Okay," she answers, desperately wanting to roll herself on top of him, but not having any sort of control over herself to do so.

"Feel like...rag doll..." she didn't think speaking could be so hard. Then again she's pretty sure she just had her brains fucked out. Dear god that was amazing.

He rolls back against her at least, realizing the cold will affect her more than him, and snags the edge of the blanket with his free hand, tugging it over both of them as he puts his arm around her. He doesn't apologize, but he does make a small guilty noise in the back of his throat as he nestles against her to keep her warm.

A pleased hum leaves her as he snuggles against her again, wrapping the blanket around them. At the sound he makes she buries her face in his neck and rubs her nose and cheek against him, more than happy to do so—although compared to the very mindblowing sex they just hand, scent marking this way seemed vaguely pointless.

"Was amazing," she manages to murmur as some of herself returns and her hands curl around him again.

While his breath slowly returns to normal, a silence lingers in the air after her words. "Thought I hurt you," Peter finally gets out. "Tried not to." He nestles his nose against hers. "Forgot I...could do that."

It takes her languorous mind longer than she'd like to get his meaning. "Only a little, at first," she says quietly, surprised she sounds almost normal. "But..." she squirms as she recalls the pressure against her g-spot; she _couldn't_ possible be aroused _again_?

"It was..." Christ she _is_ , she flushes. " _What_ was that?" She pulls her head away from his neck to look at him. She hopes it comes back again, because yeah, she really liked it.

If at all possible, and it is, Peter flushes this time. "Can I explain it later?" he asks, turning to look down near their feet. He swears quietly. The stains are never coming out of this blanket. "I don't have anything to wash us off with." Unless they are ridiculously lucky and one of the stores nearby has a faucet outside. And... "Be careful standing up," he adds, feeling awkward just saying it.

Her brain doesn't care if it's now or later, but she can't help but giggle at the rest of his words. "I don't mind, I like the stains. Reminds me," her smile is a bit lascivious. "That really was amazing."

She snuggles closer. "I don't want to get up," gently she lays an open mouthed kiss to his adam's apple. She could do this forever and be perfectly content...well she guesses they'd have to eat at some point.

Peter keeps his arm around her, lifting his hand to her hair to smooth over it. He kisses her head, nuzzling against her hair. His hand slides back under the blanket and over her shoulder, caressing down her arm as she lays against him. "Maybe I shouldn't have done that," he says, half-teasing and half-serious, with a smile etched on his face. "Will you ever want normal sex again?"

Arching under the touch she practically purrs. "I could be convinced. After all you're a very," she nibbles on his jaw. "Clever wolf." Using him as leverage she pulls herself up a little further and kisses him. When she pulls away she's smiling too. "You could make it interesting if you wanted to."

He smiles back under the kiss. "Oh?" he continues to tease once she pulls away. "It isn't interesting enough already?"

She laughs at his teasing. "You bet your ass it is."

Sinking back down she rests her head on his shoulder, half looking at him half at the few stars she could see above them. She found herself a little saddened by that, the fact that there was so much light pollution here that you couldn't really stargaze.

When Lydia lays her head on his shoulder, Peter manages to get his other arm around her and wraps them both loosely over her. They run up and down her back, smoothing over warm skin. Out here, it feels like his element with the trees.

"We can compromise," he suddenly says out of the blue. "On a place. One side, beach. The other side, forest."

This does feel wonderful though, cuddled together under the stars, alone, and, for all intents and purposes, in the middle of nowhere.

Still his outburst is surprising, and has her mentally taken aback. Part of her wants to make a comment about how she didn't know there was a disagreement, but she knows that's not what he means. Instead she runs her fingers down his side, humming thoughtfully. "I think I'd like that. Though," she smiles even if he can't see it. "It might be harder to find forest property in a metro area like Boston.” After a moment she adds, "I'd be willing to try and find it."

Grinning, he kisses her forehead. He circles his fingers along her back, settling his chin against her hair. "I'm sure we could find it if we looked together."

Tonight, more than many nights before, he feels more accepting of the vulnerability between them in the aftermath. He isn't sure if it was what just happened between them, if somewhere in his head he officially considers her a mate now, a real partner. Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but he cuddles her closer and smiles as he kisses her hair once, and then twice, nudging his nose in it as he hums almost happily in the bottom of his throat. "I—”

Peter freezes after the first word, realization hitting him of what he might have almost said, but he isn't sure how he meant it. "I... I think we should try," he adds with a nervous energy that is unlike him, trying to cover it up.

She gives an almost sleepy laugh as he nuzzles her hair, the sound coming from him reminding her of purring; not that she'll tell him that.

Of course she catches onto his flub right away, but something in her cautions to be patient, and wait. If he was about to say what she thought he might have said then she's not sure she's ready for it; after all she's only managed to tell him that she's _falling_ in love with him.

Her own hands smooth up his back, scratching lightly against his skin; attempting to sooth him. "Together, I like that. Partners." As equal as they can be.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly, letting out a shaky exhale. He nods his head above her, rubbing her back slowly to help calm his sudden spiking heartbeat as well. He has never really expressed emotions in words, so naturally, he's horrible at it. Doesn't think what he almost said meant the way she would have taken it, and is glad he stopped himself. He loves the way she is, how she is with him, and how they are together, but it's no different from saying _I loved today_ after something particularly memorable and excitable happens and explaining that to her, he thinks, might have just made it worse than letting her think the opposite after what she has admitted to him.

But he wants to think that's the first step, and maybe, just maybe, he can feel that way about someone.


	16. Chapter 16

Snuggling even closer she places a kiss on his sternum, then gives a little sigh. "We really should be going." No matter how much she'd love to stay, they can't; she just hopes whatever peace they've reached here remains. "We're almost there," she says it just as much for herself as him.

In only a few hours they'll stop running, and maybe, just maybe they'll be able to find some way to throw this curse off her and find _real_ happiness and peace, _together_.

He finally smiles again, relaxing once more. "You act like one hour makes a difference," he throws back in jest, but then considers a bath and how much they are going to need one. "Before we get up, what city should we head to? Because Boston is going to have a higher cost of living for a much smaller space, and we can always pick something smaller beside it." It's not like they come from a huge city themselves. Beacon Hills was anything but big.

She frowns against his chest, trying to remember what she could of the Boston-metro area; not that she really looked for wooded areas last year when she'd applied to MIT. "Somewhere to the north? The Cape Cod area's probably going to be just as expensive. Though I think the highways and freeways are easy enough to navigate that anywhere along the coast could be good."

With a mournful sigh she pulled away from him and sat up, shivering as the cool air made her break out in goosebumps and her nipples tighten. "Maybe once places start opening up we should buy a map. Actually _look_ at places, see where there are woods." That was the nice thing about maps, they usually had greenspaces all marked up.

He sits up after her. "A state map will work," he agrees, grabbing a corner of blanket to clean himself off with before reaching for his clothes. "They'll have the woods marked. We'll just find one next to a coastal town or in it." He quickly pulls on his shirt, then boxers, pants, and shoes, realizing he had his socks on the whole time. He smirks at that and huffs, leaning over and kissing her bare shoulder.

A smile crosses her face as she pulls the blanket around her. "You'd better put those eyes of yours to use and find my clothes, I don't think either of us wants to get in trouble for fooling around in the car." She arches an eyebrow, because she's damn certain it would be inevitable. Still might be fun for another day.

He huffs again, but it feels colder now even to him, so instead of messing with her, he finds her clothes and shakes them off before handing them back to her. Keeping his hand held out, he makes a gesture with his fingers. "Hand me the blanket," he says.

Taking her clothes she gives a wicked little smile, and tossing her hair over her shoulder she stands, not caring about her shaky legs. In one smooth motion she whips the blanket off, tossing it at Peter, and showing herself off in all her well fucked glory.

After a few seconds she slips on her dress; yes the panties are ruined but there's no need to ruin them _more_ , so she'll slip them on after she puts in a tampon. Barefoot—at least she doesn't have to worry about getting him to fetch her shoes—she dashes to the car, laughing and feeling free.

Peter catches the blanket, and he can't help that he pauses to stare. He was going to be polite and hold it around her while she got dressed, but so much for that as she runs off to the car after just slipping her dress on. With a sigh, he rolls it up and follows after her. He isn't running.

Back at the vehicle, he puts the blanket in the back and slides into the driver seat. She deserves a break this time, and he doesn't mind taking over again.

Running took it's toll though and she falls into her seat legs feeling like jelly, but she still feels overflowing with something like happiness. Tampon and panties in place Lydia makes herself comfortable in her seat and scoops Prada up before buckling up. "Sorry about that puppy," she coos at him, scratching her nails through his fur. "Mommy and daddy just had to have some alone time."

He barks at her and she just laughs again.

Peter pulls out of the parking lot with a glance over at Lydia and Prada before heading toward the nearest twenty-four seven gas station down the highway. Parking the vehicle again, he turns to Lydia. "They probably have maps here," he says.

"Alright," she knows it'll probably do her legs good to actually stretch to recover instead of doing nothing. She looks down at Prada who stares back her and she mocks a pout. "Sorry sweetheart, another stop you can't get out at." Still she'll keep him on her lap until Peter gets the door for her; and how strange was it that she'd grown used to it, and now even expected it.

He gets out and comes around to her side, noticing that she hasn't even opened the door when he gets there. Usually, she's on her way to stepping out when he comes around.

Peter opens the door and tilts his head curiously at her sitting there with Prada in her lap. "Am I getting too predictable?"

A quirk of a smile dances across her face as she puts Prada in the back seat. "Probably," she agrees. "But not in a bad way. Really the only time when predictable's bad is in sex." She continues as she climbs out, threading an arm around his. "And so far in that regard, well..." Her mind goes to what they were doing not ten or so minutes ago and she blushes a little. "You're going above and beyond expectations."

He does little to fight off a smirk as he helps her down. "Well, at least I'm not failing in that area," he says, shutting the door and leading her into the store. His eyes flit to the restroom sign as they enter. He knows he probably smells like her, in more ways than one, but it doesn't really bother him. The more he thinks about it he realizes he kind of likes it.

Maps are at the register. He grabs a book for Massachusetts and flips through for one of the coastline that marks forests as well and stops on a page, placing it on the counter to let Lydia look at it as well.

While Peter picks out the book she snags a general map of the Boston metro area. "Good idea, this too. But any others?" There are a few that were more touristy in content, which could or couldn't be useful considering.

"Not really. This and the metro map should be plenty." He looks at her, a thoughtful expression on his face. "What are we doing first? Now that we're almost there. I doubt we're going to find a place on the first day, and we've been driving all night."

"Hotel, I would hope, and sleep." She's pretty sure she's moving into that 'tired but not tired' stage; sleep would _definitely_ be welcome. Gathering up with they've picked she slaps them in front of the cashier. "Over breakfast we can look at real estate agents, see if there's one we like." Not that they couldn't do it themselves, but an agent would smooth the process considerably; and help them find what they were looking for faster. "How's that sound?"

After paying the for maps, Peter scoops them up and looks at her. "I think I'll let you make the decisions for now. I'm hungry, and I want to sleep for two days." He leads them back out to the vehicle, knowing it's morning but it feels later to him. "Maybe we'd get back on schedule if we stayed in bed for twenty-four hours because I know I can't make it through today awake."

A snort of laughter leaves her, but she also has to agree. That is if she could sleep through her cramps; maybe she'll get lucky considering what happened. "Works for me," she's certainly not going to argue against the idea that has her do nothing after doing a lot of things.

"Boston here we come." She says to the open air as she climbs back into her seat.

Once they're in the car, Peter drives despite his hunger until they reach the outskirts of Boston. With sunlight having been in the sky for a while and it being past breakfast by now, he makes only a quick stop for them to order takeout to bring with them and follows the signs until they find a small and cozy inn on a turnoff before the city, eating half of his food along the way.

Lydia only pecks at her food, not feeling hungry at the moment; but at least most of the food would keep so they could eat it later if need be.

His internal clock is off, and he figures hers can't be any better. Prada might as well be in the same boat. Hoping this is the last time for the routine, Peter checks them into the motel, which is simple and clean despite some others he's seen. He drops his bag and sits down at the single table to finish eating what he couldn't on the road, his brain on autopilot.

Lydia sets Prada down as she follows Peter into the room and as she stands back up it feels like she's been whacked in the head with sleep. Dropping her own bag next to Peter's she quickly pops a few of her midol—better safe than sorry—then strips out of her clothes and into one of Peter's shirts that just 'happened' to find it's way into her suitcase instead of his.

With a happy sort of sigh she fell into the bed and crawled under the covers. "Sleep," she groaned, zombie-like, half trying to entice Peter from his food, half to get herself to do it.

He turns halfway to look at her when she speaks in the silence and finishes off most of his order before wiping down his hands and going to the bathroom. Noticing traces of dried blood still on him, he washes that off, too. A shower can wait for when he is more awake.

Walking out, he strips down to his boxers and heads to the bed. Lydia is already warm beneath the covers, and he sidles up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and closing his eyes. Sleepily, he kisses her shoulder and rests his head close to hers.

Because she's that sort of girl she wiggles herself flush against him, making a happy sound as all that heat seeps into her and the sheets. "Night," she murmurs; eyes drifting shut. "We're nearly home." She's not sure why she says that, except that it's the truth; soon they'll be in a place that will be their home, for a long time if she has anything to say about it.

He falls asleep to the sound of her breathing and wakes up some hours later with their legs tangled together under the sheets and Lydia facing him, her head buried against his chest and arm across him, her hand laying on his back. Still feeling exhausted and ready to sleep for a century, Peter closes his eyes again to avoid the hidden cast of sun creeping through the edge of the drapes and runs his hand idly up and down her side, over her hip, and down the leg she has curled over him.

It's truly dark in the room by the time Lydia wakes with a start. In the dim light she can see Peter, still sleeping peacefully. They're front to front now, and tangled up in each other and she finds herself smiling.

A very slight dip in the bed tells her that Prada's joined them, and as carefully as she can she untangles herself from Peter. "You're probably hungry," she whispers as she sits up. Glancing at the clock she sees that it's around nine; if she does it right she can stay up for a few hours, go back to bed, and wake up nice and refreshed in the morning.

Just as carefully as before she scoots out of bed, feeds Prada, then—after making sure it's firmly pointed away from the bed—turns on the small desk/bedside lamp. On the complementary notepad she starts making notes about the sorts of things she wants in a house, in the morning she can ask Peter what he likes, nibbling on some cold leftovers while she does so.

Then she boots up Peter's laptop—glad that his sight means it screen brightness is down—and looks up real estate people, leaving a few open in various tabs to talk about with Peter.

Peter wakes up the second time to the sound of fingers tapping on the keys of his laptop. Twisting over, he opens his eyes. It's night time now, and Lydia is sitting with his laptop, a small lamp light illuminating the room.

"What are you doing?" he asks, which comes out more like a groan. He stretches out his arm, sighing, and pats the bed with his hand. "Come back to bed."

Peter's unexpected voice makes her jump. And as she calms her racing heart she glances at the laptop's clock. It's ten after midnight and like Peter said she should be going to sleep again.

Putting the laptop in hibernate she gets up and goes to him, making a pleased sound as she slips under perfectly warm covers.  "Home things," she finally answers, keeping her voice quiet in case Peter's already started slipping back into sleep. She herself closes her eyes again and cuddles back into him, one of her legs sliding between the heavier, but sure, weight of his own, her head coming to rest on his chest where the steady beat of his heart helps lure her back into sleep.

It's still dark out after Peter sleeps off all of his exhaustion from their road trip, but it's the early morning hours when he wakes up the third time and turns his head to check the bright red numbers on the clock. 5:13 AM.

With a muffled moan in the back of his throat and the warm body next to him, Peter reaches out for her hip and rolls his into hers. A case of morning wood and he wants to alleviate it, so he kisses the spot of her neck bare to him and rocks into her, trying to wake Lydia up with it.

 _Running through the woods, with the sound of the ocean in her ears and the chilly wind cutting through the diaphanous nightgown she's wearing, making her hyper aware of her body and how it aches. A wolf next to her eyes bleeding from blue to red and he throws his head back..._ to groan.

A hard and insistent cock ruts up against her thigh the same warm lips and tickly goatee go at her neck.

Fighting back a smile she keeps her eyes closed, playing at sleep—though she highly doubts it'll fool Peter—she gives a murmur and snuggles closer.

A growl is her answer, and Peter catches her earlobe between his teeth and nibbles on it, trying to get her attention without going too far. "Lydia," he hums in a low voice, tongue flicking out. He ruts against her a little more insistently with another groan. "I really wanna fuck you." Frank words to get his point across.

Without meaning to her eyes fly open, a shuddering moan leaving her. She smiles though as she rocks her hips slightly. "Mmmm, and a _good_ morning to you too."

Reaching a hand down she grasps his cock and runs her thumb over the leaking head, practically purring. "I think you should tell me how first," she murmurs, setting her teeth lightly against his jaw. Her other hand hikes up her sleeping shirt, revealing her panties. She pulls her head away and smiles as she rubs his cock against them. "Every dirty," she bites her lip as she feels his cock pulse against her clit. "filthy, detail."

A whimper escapes her at the thought.

A softer moan escapes him to have her hand on him, relieving the tension with her thumb and palm, and then she's rubbing him against her panties. Try as he might, though, he may be awake but he is not completely coherent. "I'm not feeling very creative right now," he responds with a lethargic tone, rolling them over to put himself on top. He doesn't do anything, though, knowing she's still on her period and likely wearing a tampon at the moment. He buries his face against her neck, laying light kisses across it. "Please don't punish me," he murmurs with another kiss.

Even if it's just her hand, something is better than nothing, and he remembers what she said about giving him head.

She squirms under him, humming softly for a few moments. "Mmm, you have been good haven't you?" Her hand, slightly slick now moves easily up and down him. "Looking after me," twist. "Feeding me," pump. "Keeping me sated."

Soothing her other hand down his back she squeezes him. "Roll over." She says against his hair. "Unless you'd rather I keep teasing you?" She rubs her thumb against his slit again, pulling her hand away and giving an exaggerated sigh as she licks her hand clean.

He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on her hand and the words coming from her mouth. "Yes," he murmurs back, another, more freely given, moan escapes him.

Rolling off of her, he lands on his back, breathing just a little harder. He pushes off his boxers all the way, kicking them the last bit off his feet. Maybe she wants to be on top this time.

With a smile she pushes herself upright, discarding her sleeping shirt, leaving her only in her panties. "And good wolves get special rewards." Leaning over him she drags her tongue across on of his nipples, soon followed by her teeth. She places an almost loving kiss between his pectorals before repeating the process with his other nipple.

Maybe he doesn't ask for it, but the careful attention she gives him is just as stimulating for him as it is for her; he feels his cock strain for attention, but he likes that she makes him wait. He gazes at her through hooded eyes, letting Lydia have her way without interruption. The only thing he does is reach for her hair and carefully comb it behind her ear out of the way, his thumb grazing her cheek.

"It doesn't have to be a reward," he says quietly, but he knows it's all for show.

Leaning into the touch, to show that she appreciates it, she gives a softer smile. But it soon turns wicked again, her hands sliding up his sides to tweak and pinch at his nipples. "I don't think you get a say in what I call it," she tells him loftily, falling easily back into this teasing role.

Keeping her eyes on his she begins lapping and nipping her way down his chest and abs, tongue chasing beads of salty sweat and greedily consuming them.

He feels his head draw back at her bold command as a shock runs through him, but it tingles all the way down to his toes and he finds himself grinning wickedly in response as his eyes twinkle. "Is that how it's going to be?" he asks, tipping his head back and chin up as her tongue and teeth move lower down his body, teasing the bare skin. He moans aloud, a muscle in his abdomen twitching at her ministrations. "You might have to... put me in line."

She traces a design on his belly with her tongue. "Mmmm, that's easy." Her hands trail back down his sides to cup his cock and his balls. "After all, these are already mine."

Lifting her head up from his stomach she laps at the head of his cock happily taking in his precum. Her toes curl a little at the taste; on the whole she might not like giving blowjobs, but she has to admit that the end product is always delicious.

The declaration, it's true, on top of her tongue at the most sensitive apex of his cock causes him to swear out loud. " _Fuck_ ," he hisses. Blowjobs are one thing, but tongues are what make them worthwhile. "Yes," he breathes out. "Please." Oh yes, he'll beg. He still regrets turning down the first blowjob she offered.

Her smile turns almost proprietary as his cock pulses and he begs. "See," she purrs against the tip of him. "Not so hard." She takes the head of him in her mouth, tongue still lapping, and hums around him. Hollowing out her cheeks she sinks her mouth down a little more, then pulls off completely; sliding her mouth down along the thick vein of his cock.

"Such a good bad wolf," she says, her hand massaging his balls while she very gently begins nibbling her way back up to his crown.

He shudders; his whole chest quakes. It's torture. Blissful torture. He can feel the tight strain of his muscles, the beg for release. Cheekily, he thinks of a reply to that. Now might not be the time to get cheeky, though. Peter brings a hand to her hair; not to force movements, but to cup her head and follow them. "On the contrary," he adds unevenly, tearing his eyes from the ceiling to look at her over a heaving chest, "I'm _very_ hard right now."

She laughs against him, her eyes glittering as she meets his. "Well then, maybe I need to work a little _harder_ to get control, hmmm? Talk like that might get you no reward at all." Not true at all, but it makes for a good 'threat'.

The hand not making busy with his balls returns to the shaft of his cock, giving the whole of it a good pump as her mouth returns to the head of him, tongue swirling around, trying to get into every nook and cranny it can. Again she sinks down her tongue stopping in it's swirling to massage his vein, and again she hums around him.

He bites his lip. No more cheeky talk. He doesn't know if she would actually stop, but he doesn't trust his mouth not to betray him.

Threading his fingers through her hair, his eyes flutter to a close and he groans aloud again as his muscles twitch unexpectedly. He may not be this vocal most of the time, but if it's a rare opportunity, then he's going to savor it. Quite frankly, her tongue is beyond perfect. "Yes," he tells her, breathing it all out, "keep doing that. Both. Both things." The pump of her hand, the twirl of her tongue; the humming and massaging as she sinks down just enough. "I wanna come," he encourages her. "Make me come. Please—”

Lydia basks in every sound and twitch, every plea and entreaty; they drive her on, eager to feel his semen coat her mouth and throat. Her nails scratch lightly against his balls while her head slides up so that when her hand follows her thumb can press and rub where crown meets vein, drawing up more precum, which she licks, moaning happily.

Then she pulls herself off, not far mind you, his cock is still right in front of her face, her breath ghosting across the head of him, a thin chain of saliva still connecting them. Her hand still pumps however, getting him towards that razor's edge. This time the glitter in her eyes isn't from happiness, but from avarice. She can tell he's close from the way his cock pulses in her hand, from the way his balls shift and tighten.

Pursing her lips she blows a stream of air across his tip, focusing on the slit.

His hips jerk at her teasing, the cool blow of air both wonderful and torturous and drawing him closer to that edge with the pump of her hand. He growls, though, because he doesn't want to come like this; he wants to be in her mouth. His hand behind her head tugs her closer. "Lydia," he bites out, gripping her hair, but it's too late. Her teasing and firm pump push him over, and he comes, his neck arching into the bed as the tension in his body finally finds a release.

 _There it is_ , the veins in his neck pulse and his body tenses, and her mouth descends once more as he starts to orgasm; most of the first spray lands in her mouth, but the rest she feels hit her face—just something to clean up later. And everything after that firmly hits her tongue and throat; she breaths in through her nose in between.

She moans around him, her hand still pumping, if lighter than before, coercing every last drop from him that she can get. But then his body can give no more and with a final lick she pulls away, triumphant smile on her face as her fingers begin wiping off the semen that landed on her cheeks. Using her mouth and tongue to clean those.

It's a daze over his mind in the aftermath. She gives him just what he wants at the very last second, and he can't do anything but lie there and let her and enjoy it. The hand in her hair turns gentle again, relaxed as he combs fingertips along her scalp, muscles and nerves still pulsing with the aftershocks of pleasure. Wordless, he lies there and steadies his breathing.

As clean as she wants to be she she taps out a brief rhythm on his hip before moving to cuddle against his side. Nuzzling her face against his neck. "Good?" She picks up the hand that used to be in her hair and wraps it around her waist.

He turns to find her face, but it's cradled against his neck. Instead, he takes the hand she wrapped around her waist and runs it up and down her back. Closing his eyes, he rests his chin atop her head. "I don't think 'good' is a strong enough word," he murmurs.

She smiles against his neck. "Good," she hums, arching under his touch.

He wraps both arms around her, holding her to him, when a thought hits him. "What were you looking at last night?"

She pulled her head away slightly to rest it on his shoulder. "Well I started making a list of things I wanted in the house we're getting. Then I started looking through local real estate agents." Her fingers dragged up his belly to trace designs on his chest.

He hums in response. "We don't need a big house," he adds, musing out loud. "It's just us. One, maybe two bedrooms, should be plenty. For guests. If we have any." She might be the one who brings those around. It certainly wouldn't be him.

"Yeah," she stops in her aimless tracing and just spreads out her hand over his heart. "That's already on the list," she lifts her hand and gestures at the notepad next to the laptop; then quickly returns it to it's previous spot. "And the woods, and the beach, I also put a good sized kitchen and entertaining space." She knew if she opened herself again she could make friends, _good_ friends even.

"Small yard," she isn't much of a gardening person and would rather not have to worry about it. "If you want to add things you can."

His fingers play in her hair, a smile edging onto his face. "Big yard," he says.

She gives a soft snort. "I thought you wanted forest? Isn't that a yard?" She half teases. "But if we do get it then you'll be the one looking after it. I don't garden." Then again maybe they can compromise. "Big back yard, small front yard." She'd never really understood the whole 'curb appeal' thing from a yard standpoint, it all just seemed a waste; if the house looked nice enough then why would anyone care whether your grass was dying or not?

He laughs silently, his chest quaking. "Big backyard. Connected to a forest," Peter finally agrees. "I don't care about the front yard." He noses against her hair. "Room to roam will be nice. I don't mind about everything else."

Her body shakes with his laughter and her smile grows. "Alright," she agrees.

He has a thought, a strange one. He doesn't know if she wants them to share a room or not. Based on how they've been progressing, he guesses this is heading into actual relationship territory. But it's been such a short time. For so many big changes. Not just him either, but her too.

In his silence his fingers slow throughout her hair.

In the ensuing quiet she sits up, keeping her hand on his chest she leans over and kisses him; wondering what he'll think of his taste in her mouth. When she pulls away though there's concern in her eyes. "You alright?" Not that he can't be quiet, but there's an odd feel to this one.

He leans into the kiss, not minding one bit the lingering taste of himself still on her. He even slips his tongue past her lips to briefly get a deeper taste of him and her mingled together.

He blinks at her, wondering if he should answer. But honesty seems better than hiding. "Do you think this is fast?" he asks, directing it straight at her. His eyes flick to her forehead, his fingers moving away a stray lock of her hair before his eyes meet hers again. "Any of this at all?"

At first she nearly answers 'no', which is the truth; but she needs to think deeper than that, Peter deserves that at least. "To me it doesn't feel like it. The sex is new, and so is the living together; but we _have_ known each other for over a year and a half, so it's not like we're complete strangers to each other." Reaching out she tugs the blankets up around her to give her some more warmth.

"If you had asked me two weeks ago where I thought I would be at _this_ moment, this is not at all how I would have responded. But I don't regret my choices so far. And..." For a moment she tears her gaze away from him, needing to recenter herself, so she stares at the bland wall art, counting to twenty before looking back down to Peter.

"And in a way this is what I've always wanted?" Her lips quirk in a bittersweet smile. "Definitely not the dead friends, or having to run from Beacon Hills to escape something we couldn't defeat, or the long hours on the road. But owning a house with someone who I care deeply about and who feels the same way for me? Going to the school of my dreams and completely stop pretending I'm someone I'm not? I did always want that."

Leaning down again she lays a kiss on his forehead before settling herself on top of him. "I didn't expect to have all of that this quickly, no. But I'm not going to turn it away."

Well, she is right. They were anything but strangers before any of this began. As she settles on top of him, he can't stop the smallest smile that curls up the corner of his lips and crinkles his eyes, but it also comes with a small laugh at the realization of what that means for him. Slightly embarrassing to a degree, given his past reputation, but nothing he would turn away in the now. Nothing he wouldn't mind changing. His hands settle into her lower back, holding her there in case she takes offense to his laugh before he can explain. "You're domesticating me," he murmurs, reaching up to press his closed lips to her shoulder.

"Is that such a bad thing?" She replies, doing her best to make that _not_ teasing. Though if he thought she was domesticating him he was forgetting one important fact.

"I didn't say that," he tells her, looking Lydia in the eyes. His gaze falls to her neck, the press of their chests together. "Most people at the end of the day just want to belong somewhere, whether it's a home or a family or something else. Maybe that's something I've wanted, too." He lets out a slow breath, recalling everything from the last two years. His voice is quieter when he speaks again. "I've just been doing it the wrong way."

If anyone knows about doing things the wrong way it's her. Tilting her head up she lay a soft kiss under his chin.

Her fingers touched his shoulder and followed the vein there all the way down to his hand, lacing with his own. "Even domesticated wolves are still dangerous." She had no illusions about Peter after all, he wasn't Scott; he _would_ kill if he thought it the best way to keep himself, and her, safe. The part of her that was still part of Scott's pack was horrified; but the rest of her knew that there was nothing wrong with choosing your life over another's when it came down to it. And in a way she felt even safer knowing that; that Peter would do _anything_ to keep her safe and with him; short of manipulating her of course, or forcing her.

He looks down at her hand, lacing his fingers back with hers. "Dangerous how?" Peter asks, an edge of playful curiosity to his tone. Maybe he knows what she meant, but he still would like to hear her say it.

But at the question a smile returns to her face. "Weellll," she uses her free hand to push herself slightly upright again. "You do have quite the teeth. Long and sharp, perfect for biting. And claws for piercing and ripping. You're strong and fast, you could easily take down whatever you wanted." It might be ego stroking for him, but she's starting to get off on it too. "And let's not forget about those senses of yours. Telling you everything you need to know about your target.

"Dan-ger-ous, that's definitely what you are."

He smirks as she goes through her list, but it soon becomes a full-fledged grin when she reaches the end. She can call it ego-stroking if she wants, but coming from her, it tends to affect things that aren't his ego. "When you talk like that, I have a hard time controlling myself," he teases, reaching up nose near her ear. He could spend the whole morning worshiping her until he wears himself out, but he doesn't know how she is feeling overall, and there is another part of him that would also be more than happy and content to pamper and comfort her instead.

Her smile turns a little wicked and she leans over and down to whisper in his ear. "So you can hear the way my heart's pounding? My blood rushing as it heats me up, makes me flush? Of course you can see me squirm, the way my pupils dilate, the beads of sweat that are forming. You can probably feel my pulse racing too; the way my skin warms and curves against yours? And if you wanted to you could taste. The salt on my skin, my arousal, my blood. But," she moves her head, lips ghosting across his cheek.

"In a way it's your sense of smell that's the most impressive. All you'd have to do is inhale," she demonstrates. "And you learn so much about me. If I'm happy, sad," she squirms; she can feel his cock beginning to harden again, but she shifts off it. She's not sure she could do penetration just yet, but a little reciprocity wouldn't be remiss. "Aroused."

Boldly, and half without meaning to she continues. "You can probably smell when I'm ovulating can't you? If I'm fertile? The way my hormones change to try and attract a mate."  _That's_ something she never thought she'd bring up during sex, let alone have it arouse her. "Could you smell it if I got pregnant? Your child in..." Her own moan cuts her off; Christ, she's certain she doesn't want kids right now, but somehow the thought of Peter being able to tell it's his just by smell alone makes her squirm.

He glides his palms up and down her arms, his own pulse beginning to race as she describes everything he can sense and feel. Of course, he can sense it now, too, but there remains an underlying question of what she can or can't do right now. Without her say so, he doesn't know what that is, but his cock still hardens as Lydia speaks further about his sense of smell—and then she shifts off his lap, a mild wave of disappointment washing over him.

His eyes widen, though, when she breaches territory beyond just arousal, and his face flushes hot, his skin burning up across his chest and flaring red from the heat. Certainly, he doesn't want kids—doesn't feel ready for something that serious either—but her taunting words awaken a much more primal side of him that turns aggressive, aroused, and possessive all at the mere mention of it in such a seductive tone.

Carefully, he rolls them over to lay her on the bed, but he keeps a distance between their bodies, placing all five fingertips of one hand over her flat belly. He swears his teeth are nearly bared before his tongue flicks over them, and he lowers his mouth to her neck, breathing hard. The tension is a tight coil in his abdomen, the tip of his hard cock grazing against her skin and making his muscles jolt slightly. He plays along with it. "No one," he whispers slowly, almost a hiss, "would be able to touch you. If they laid a single finger on you, I would tear it off. Nothing," he glides his fingertips slowly down her stomach to the little curls between her legs, "but my gentle caress," he kisses the pulse point on her throat, "would be allowed," he slides his fingers lower, grazing her clit, "on your body."

Peter lays an open-mouthed kiss against her neck as he starts to gently circle his fingers around her sensitive nub. It's not a jealous possessiveness he speaks of, but a fiercely protective one. "If anyone so much as scratched you," he says against her skin, his voice turning rough, "I would rip out their throat..." He thinks about it as well; the idea of fucking her over and over until his seed took, until her belly swelled with it, and he growls near her collarbone—he didn't know this was something he'd be into, but clearly, it's working. His cock is leaking against her thigh as his fingers work a little faster over her clit.

The change in position is unexpected, but not unwelcome. She can see his fangs filling his mouth and some part of her _wants,_ wants to feel those fangs sinking into her, holding her in place as he breeds her like the wolf he is; the thought of it has her squirming again, seeking relief. And as he begins speaking and teasing her with his fingertips she mewls, hips rocking and legs falling open to give him better access.

"Would you come to me still dirty and bloodied?" Falling further and further into this fantasy she's not sure she wants to get out. "The conquering hero taking his due?" Not that Peter is a hero.

Despite the desire to let him take her once again she wants something else first. "But," she pants out, trying to keep her train of thought while his fingers drive her to orgasm. "What I want to know is, could you taste it?" Her question ends in another moan; because somehow seeing his fingers work through her underwear makes it a million times more dirty, and just plays into the whole scenario.

"Would that tongue, _ah_ ," her eyes squeeze shut, as if it would help hold back her oncoming orgasm. "taste it in my arousal? You should try-" But the orgasm she's been trying to hold back overcomes her and she can't speak except to whimper softly, body arching off the bed, as pleasure fills her.

Body trembling and chest heaving she falls back onto the bed.

"Yes," he growls, the imagery of coming to her bloody and claiming her again encouraging the beastly side of him further. "I would take it all..." He lets his teeth drag along her skin before licking up the salty sweet taste of her. For a moment after her orgasm, he wants to remind himself that it's just a fantasy, that he doesn't actually want to get her pregnant, but the urge to fuck her without a condom and come inside her is overwhelming with the way she talks about it—and he's already done it twice, so there is some reality to it as well, and he likes it. They've gotten lucky with it. With her period, he thinks they're safe.

On the other hand, with what she's said, he's never had his face between a woman's legs during that time of month either. He may be a werewolf, but it's different. He looks down between them, slides his fingers a little lower, low enough to touch her in between. His fingers graze the little cotton string, but when he pulls them away and looks, they're wet from her but he doesn't see any blood.

He decides to be bold, but it's still obvious he is unsure and maybe a little uncomfortable; he'll at least try it, though, under careful circumstances if she really wants it.

Peter makes eye contact with Lydia as he moves down her body to settle between her legs. He rests one hand on her thigh and glides his fingertips back and forth as his lips press against her inner thigh. Slowly, he kisses a path inward. Her smell is definitely different; stronger, mustier, but no less her. He doesn't remove the tampon; he isn't that bold, but there's a careful lick that, when not met with anything unpleasant, spurs another one and another one. Each one bolder than the last. He moves upward, focusing on her clit—having no reservations about that area in his mouth, and moans around her when he takes it between his lips and moves more happily against her.

His fingers continue to glide softly along her innermost thighs, tickling the sensitive areas as his mouth moves on her to kiss and suck, his tongue swirling around her clit and ending it with a kiss before he pulls back just a bit and touches her ever so briefly with the tip of his tongue. It doesn't diminish his desire, and he moves to cover her again, moaning as licks and swirls his tongue.

The eye contact makes her feel hyper aware of every touch and lick; tiny aftershocks of orgasm rushing through her with each one. But she can sense his slight hesitance, and so keeps her legs spread and clutches the sheets instead of his hair; this is new to the both of them after all, since it's usually just her and a dildo or vibrator when she's on her period.

She gives a happy sigh though, eyes drifting shut as she arches slightly. "Mmmm, yes." It comes out slightly slurred, as if she's so pleasure drunk it's actually affecting her brain.

Her choice to give him the control, especially with it being so new and delicate, puts him more at ease. He leaves her, temporarily, to trace little kisses and licks across both of her inner thighs, making small bites as his comfort level gets higher. When his mouth returns to her, he delves a little more greedily with his tongue, testing the waters and tasting a slight tang, but it only makes him give off a low groan against her. His inhibitions dissipate, and he covers her with his mouth, drawing his tongue up from the bottom to her clit, and refocusing with an eagerness this time that wasn't there before.

Tiny breathless gasps leave her with each soft bite. Her hips rocking more and more as she seeks another orgasm.

When his mouth returns her eyes nearly roll back in her head and she clutches at the sheets tighter. "Could... _oooh_...take out... _ah_!...tampon." She'll leave it up to him, but she can certainly feel it with some passes of his tongue; and she's not really sure how she feels about it—not that it really takes away from her current pleasure.

He stills again, but only for a second. The intimacy of doing what she asked feels more personal than sex, but realizing he came this far, what's one more thing? He turns his head enough to focus solely on sucking and tonguing her clit, as well as moving himself out of the way, and curls an index finger around the little string now wet with his saliva and her juices, and very slowly, pulls on it as he continues to lavish her with attention. Once it's out, the smell of her overwhelms his senses, but not in a bad way. He drops it on the bed, forgotten, and braces his palms against the mattress to push into her a little and add pressure to her clit with his mouth to give her the end she seeks.

The unusual dual sensations have her thrashing, a groan falling from her lips. But then it's gone, only to be replaced by pressure and werewolf heat and with a sharp inhale she orgasms again. A weak moan escaping as her body becomes even more limp with pleasure.

He pulls back when he notices her going limp, his thumb grazing the soft flesh of her thigh and the very bottom of her cheeks. He kisses her thigh again and looks at the bed with her discarded panties and tampon, the bright red blood against the white. He imagines the cleaning service isn't going to be pleased with them.

Rising up her body with little kisses along her stomach and between her breasts, he notices a few spots of red splotched on her skin left in the path he made, and he passes a thumb over his chin, coming away with a smear of red. He glances down at Lydia in her haze. "Despite my open and reckless reputation, I've never done that." He thinks it's obvious enough, but he says it just in case his nerves didn't deliver something she might have expected from him.

This time the light touches and soft kisses don't tease, they make her feel cossetted, cherished. It brings a new level to her pleasure that she's rarely felt before and it makes a slightly dopey smile spread across her mouth.

Weak laughter leaves her at Peter's admission, but she finds herself grateful that he's telling her that. "Mmmm, new for me too," still when she looks at his face she can't help the little tremor that passes through her at the sight of him, her blood covering his chin and lips; with his glowing eyes it only brings back their earlier talk of taking and fucking.

"Are you going to take now, my conquering wolf? Cover yourself in my blood?" The words almost have a ritual like feel to them, adding a vaguely amusing sort of gravitas in her mind. "Take your due and make me only yours?" The last bit is technically a lie, because she's already his; but it keeps with the story they've been telling each other.

A smile crosses his face at her agreement, but the mood has changed for him. Though still aroused, the moment for roughness has passed, and despite her inciting declarations, he leans down to gently capture Lydia's lips in a kiss much more subdued than the images she just painted with her words. His hand runs over her hair just above her forehead before slipping lower and allowing him to brush his thumb along her cheek. "If that's what you want," he answers in a low voice, softly pecking her lips this time. "But I think," he adds in a murmur, "that I would much rather worship the ground you lay on and let you conquer me." He parts his lips, lowering them back to hers again.

 _Oh_ , she leans into the caress. Her eyes closing with their second kiss, finding she doesn't care that he tastes of blood. "I... _yes_ ." She wants to be pampered, worshiped. At that thought the memories of last night's wildness fills her. " _My_ wolf."

He kisses her again at her answer, one hand sliding down her shoulder and over her breast, grazing a nipple with his thumb. "Do you," he asks against her lips, "want to be on top of me?" He feels a little more comfortable with letting her control things right now, letting her choose, due to an underlying fear that he might accidentally hurt her. After the very intimate act they just went through, he is hyper-aware of her body and the changes it's experiencing.

A soft, sharp sound leaves her at the brush of his thumb. But at his question she nods, then adds. "Yes."

Shifting off of her, Peter lays on his back beside her and moves to get comfortable.

Body protesting, maybe she should have said no out of laziness—she finds herself giggling a little at the thought—she sits upright. Keeping herself moving she straddles him, feeling the heat of his hard cock pulsing between her legs has her arching however. But it only reminds her that he's bare.

Her hands on his chest to steady herself she lowers her head and kisses him. "Condoms?" She asks as she pulls away. Granted she doesn't know if she could get up to get them.

"They're in my bag," he tells her, running his hands up her sides. He lifts his head, another gentle kiss to her lips. "Do we really need them?" After all, with her period, he figures it's alright. He slides his hand lower over her ass, gripping gently. "You know, with this." His hand slips lower, grazing between her legs.

It hardly surprises her that there's a part of her that wants to completely ignore the facts and say 'no', but that would be a lie. "Yes Peter, I could still get pregnant." Her period's always been on the shorter side—and she doesn't doubt that she's already ovulating—so while it's fun to talk about impregnating while they're riling each other up, practically it's a bad idea.

Reluctantly she pulls herself off him and shimmies off the bed—she can at least put on a bit of a show—without much preamble she yanks the lid up and pulls out two packets. She rights herself slowly, showing herself off as best she can. Turning back around to face him she gives him a curl of a smile as she begins strutting back towards the bed.

She tosses one packet onto the side table, while she opens the other. Condom in hand she crawls back over him, sliding the condom onto him before taking up her previous position. Tilting her upper body down a little gives her just the right angle so when she rocks across him the head of him rubs her clit.

A little surprise fills him at her answer, but it quickly fades as she crawls off the bed and puts on a smaller show about it. Taking himself in hand, he strokes slowly as he watches her until she returns to him and rolls the condom on herself. He moves his hand out of the way and runs them across her thighs as she rocks above him, reaching around to grab her ass with a careful squeeze before sliding them up her back. A last minute decision, his arm goes around her waist as he sits up, and he kisses up her jaw from her chin to her ear.

She arches her neck into the kisses, her pleased purr returning. Rocking against him one last time she lifts up her hips, and making sure he's in the right place, begins to sink down; more than willing to take her sweet time with it for now.

It does feel different with the condom, not bad, just different. She tilts her head again, this time to lay nuzzling kisses on his cheek and jaw. "Mm, talk to me." She feels sated, but not sleepy, and it makes her want to go languorously slow, although she has no idea how long that notion will last.

As she sinks onto him, he shuts his eyes, thankful for picking the non-latex condoms. Preventive all the same but smoother and thinner, and he can feel the heat of her as if nothing were between them. It doesn't make him wish for the opposite, so he curls his arm loosely around her waist and lets out a low moan as she takes her time with it. He returns the kisses her cheek and jaw and removes his hand from her back to hold the side of her face as his nose grazes hers. "These are a lot of firsts," he says, his voice a little uneven. It runs more gravelly as he continues. "Tell me, Lydia, what other things will you let me do to you that no one else has done?" He leans in as if to kiss her, but holds back just a fraction from her lips. "What things do you want to do to me?" It's only fair, after all.

Once again she leans into the touch, giving him better access to the other side of her face. She's nearly taken him in completely, intent on going slow, but his words and rough voice shock her into taking that last inch sharply, making her gasp and shudder at the sensation, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure rocks through her.

It starts to abate relatively soon, but doesn't go away completely, and her own arms wrap around him. Still the more she thinks about what she's game to try with him the more she clenches around him, each new thought filled with a potential of pleasure.

"A lot," she whispers against his lips, sharing breath feeling even more intimate than sex. "But I told _you_ to talk," she pants. Feeling like her thighs can handle it she starts to pull herself up. "You said you wanted to worship me." She raises herself up until only the head of him is inside her, rubbing just enough against her g-spot that she bites her lip, the flash of pain just adding to her pleasure. "So worship."

All too briefly she slides her lips against his, catching some of her own blood on her lips, smearing it even more as she moved down to his neck, setting her teeth into the thick muscle there and sliding back down.

He grins as he feels her teeth on his neck and shutters, his head falling back, as she comes back down again. "So _demanding_ ," he teases, and then with a flash, his grin is gone and replaced with a soft whisper in her ear. "Of course, my sweetheart." His tongue flicks out, a little more sensual than the kindness, but the duality goes well together. Raising his own knees and bracing his feet against the bed, he runs both hands up and down her back before focusing on kissing and nipping at her jaw, one hand gently outlining the curve of her breast. His thumb circles over it, light, teasing. "I want to learn every inch," he murmurs, "of your skin. What turns you on. What makes you writhe. What makes you smile." He nips the corner of her jaw. "What makes you happy." Both hands go to her breasts, thumb curving gently over her hardened nipples. Grazing them constant with a tortuous touch. "I want to be the only thing you'll ever need to feel complete. Inside and out."

The slight change in his angle as he shifts positions makes her whimper against his throat, which becomes drawn out when his hand settles over her breast. Then he starts speaking and even though they're closed she can feel her eyes roll back in her head; his other hand joins the first and she gasps, letting go of her spot on his neck and throwing her head back as she arches into his touch.

Adding a slight roll of his hips toward hers, he moves his hands lower, smoothing them over her warm skin. "Your only servant," he adds softly. His mouth bends forward to her neck afterward to latch a kiss onto her there, his tongue soothing the angry mark he leaves on her fair and easily flushed skin. "Has anyone ever done that for you, Lydia? Helped you reach your... highest potential?" There is a slight smirk to his lips as he says it because he isn't talking about academics, of course. His hand lowers between them to tend his thumb to her while she rode him. "I think I brought you close, the other night in the woods, but there's so much more, Lydia. You can rise _higher_ than that."

Another whimper when he rolls his hips, and with shaky thighs she starts to raise herself up again; only for her hips to slam back down again when he continues, a sharp, needy sound escaping her from both thumb and words. "Higher?" She mewls, the idea both terrifying and tantalizing. He gave her a g-spot orgasm and made her squirt, what more could there possibly be?

Walls tight around him she rises up again, almost desperate to go as slow as she'd originally planned.

A grunt escapes him when she slams down onto him, but he keeps his touch gentle. He doesn't try to take away her control of it. "Yes," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her chin, and then her jaw. "Why rely on a fluke of nature to give you what you want?" His voice turns a bit rough, losing some of its composure. "I can give you that any day of the week." He clamps his teeth temporarily over her neck, releasing her a moment later with a hiss. "Over and over. Just let go..." He smooths his hands over the indention between her waist and hips. "Just tilt your body. Explore. Change the angle." He leans in for her chest, laying an open-mouthed kiss against her heated skin, tasting little beads of sweat. "Discover what you want," he breathes out. " _Show_ me what you want. Try it, sweetheart." There is an edge to the endearment when he says it. It lacks innocence, his hands running more freely over her naked skin. "Go on and try it. Don't be shy."

 _Fluke of nature?_ Not that she has much time to think about it what with the way he's snarling his words—she flutters around him—and biting her enough to tease her with the edge she wants, and the petting, and the kissing, and...

Trusting him, and feeling the exciting tangle of nerves at the suggestion, she lets her torso fall back, her hands catching herself on his calves before she can fall _too_ far back. She barely registers the tickle of his hair on her palms, more concerned with the feel of his cock now pressing right up against her g-spot. It's not the insistent, inescapable pressure of whatever'd happened last night; but it's nearly as good.

" _Oh,"_ she gives an experimental rock up and down and hisses, almost but not quite. She circles her hips, no. She bites her lip again, she knows that there'll be satisfaction if figuring out what she needs to do herself, but there's also the fact that she wants an orgasm soon; not quite conducive to experimentation.

Tentatively she shifts one hand off his calf and onto the bed, then the other.  _There_ , still not as mind blowing as that 'fluke of nature' of his; but now when she rocks her hips, or slides up and down him as best she can in her new position, his cock is always rubbing against her g-spot. " _Peter_..."

He can't do much in the way of thrusting right now, but he can grasp a hold of her hips and rock her harder onto him. It doesn't leave much in the way of talking, though, as he speeds things up with his hands on her. Rolling his hips, his own body leans a little away from her but remains upright. He breathes faster, wondering if she would protest to him attempting to slip two fingers into her to get to that spot. Deciding he'll try, he lets go of one hip and moves his hand between them. "Hold still," he breathes out, positioning them near the top of where their bodies meet, knowing it won't be easy with his cock inside her. He gives her a moment to understand what he wants to do to see if she stops him, though.

The rocking has her shuddering, his hands anchoring her and making her more confident in their current position.

But when asks her to she stops moving, despite her body's protests. Looking down to where they're joined makes a soft sound leave her, especially with his hand right there, nearly touching her clit.

She thinks she knows what he means, but she forces her pleasure addled brain to think for a few seconds. She knows it could potentially hurt, but on the other hand last night hadn't hurt and whatever that'd been was probably a hell of a lot bigger than a few fingers; and she found herself curious to know if last night was a fluke or if they could achieve the same thing through different means.

She nearly nods but then stops because being verbal is important. "Okay," she _is_ nervous, and she doesn't try to hide it; but she's still willing to try. She shifts her pelvis towards him, hoping to give him more 'room' to work with, if that were such a thing.

He nods, looking her in the eyes. "Okay," he whispers back, wanting her consent before he moved forward. "Look at me," he adds, still soft but a little louder. He tries for a gentle push at first, but even with her accommodating angle, it does nothing. He bites his lower lip, repositioning his hand and adding more force this time with his arm. With the wetness between them, there is a little give to his fingertips, but it's tight even for him and even with so little. It doesn't hurt him, though; in fact, he feels a pulse throb pleasurably in response. "Okay?" he ventures to ask. If it hurts her, then he'll stop.

She looks him in the eye as his hand begins to move. The first try's an obvious failure but the second time she can feel a new sensation of pressure, definitely not like last night; but not unbearable. Still she thinks any more _will_ hurt, so it's something they're going to have to work at.

"Yes," she manages to say. "But, no more I think." She'll admit to herself, and maybe later to Peter, that she did like getting hurt sometimes with sex; but bites, bruising and redness weren't torn flesh.

To test out the waters as it were she rocks her hips again, the slight pull of his fingertips on the back motion has her whimpering, an extra spurt of fluids coming from her and coating his fingers. "Close," she pants.

"Okay," he says again, but this time it's an agreement and not a question. He almost moves to pull his hand back until she starts rocking, so he leaves it there instead. The pressure is at first strange, but then he closes his eyes and it's different, but it feels good. He rocks his hips with hers again and circles his thumb lightly over her clit.

With a shiver and quiet sigh Lydia orgasms. Her hands clutching the bedspread tightly as Peter's continued touches send her up higher. When she feels her arms are about to give out she pushes herself forward and catches herself on his chest, using her legs to bear more of her weight. Which of course changes the angles of everything, and giving her some relief from the pleasure. "That was good." She manages to murmur, still mostly caught up in the aftershocks of orgasm.

He stills when she falls into him, wrapping both arms around her back and running one up and down as his chin falls to her shoulder. "Good," he murmurs back, tilting his head to kiss her ear. He slips a hand to her bottom, long enough to pull her up some and free himself. Pulling off the condom, he drops it. He's still erect, but it's not important for him to come again. He knows what he likes, what gets him there, and right now he doesn't feel like being a human jackhammer towards her. "I know what you need," he says next, his tone different now. More light-hearted.

He turns toward the edge of the bed with one arm around her waist, and then slips one under her knees and wraps the other firmly around her back. Standing up, he lifts her up and carries Lydia to the bathroom. "A bath," he announces, flicking on the light.

An undignified squeak leaves her as he scoops her up. But she finds herself laughing faintly at his mannerism. Giving a little stretch in his arms she hums. "That does sound good. Breakfast too," she can feel her stomach starting to twist and she's certain it'll start complaining soon.

"Are you going to join me?" She's showered with people before, but never taken a bath. Granted the bath hardly looks like it would fit them both comfortably, but she's game to try.

He smiles to himself at her answer. Setting her down on her feet, he leans over and runs the water while adjusting the heat before closing the drain. "Yes," he answers, standing back up. He steps in behind her with his hands on her waist. There's enough room for them both. Maybe not to stretch out, but it won't be uncomfortable. Peter moves to sit down before she does, deciding to tease her again because sitting down gives him a perfect view of her ass, so he nips her on the right cheek before she can stop him.

She jumps and lets out another squeak at the soft bite. "Peter!" But she's also laughing."You're horrible," she's certain she'll never tire of hurling that particular chastisement against him; because she's sure he'll never change at least in that way.

As she climbs in after him she gives his shoulder an affectionate smack. She makes a happy sound as she lowers herself into the warm and rapidly rising water. It's an easy enough thing to settle between his legs, her own stretching out and just barely grazing the far end. "I think we might need one of those jacuzzi tubs." She hadn't thought much about shared bathing at their eventual house, but if it's going to be more than a rare thing then a tub that they can both comfortably fit in would be nice, and well she wouldn't say no to the massaging jets.

"I'm affectionate," he counters, his hands rising to help her lower into the water. "Most people just don't know that." _Didn't know that_ , he corrects himself mentally. He ignores the press of her against his erection, knowing it will start to fade as he focuses on something else. He hums thoughtfully at her comment about a jacuzzi tub, pulling her hair off her back and letting it fall over her shoulder. His hands cup in the water and bring it up to let it fall on her back before he leans forward and kisses it near her shoulder. Looking up, he sees a wash cloth already folded on the soap rack next to travel size versions of soap and body gel. "At the very least," he says, reaching up for the items, "a garden tub. Easier to find, and they can still have jets."

She doesn't exactly freeze at his words, but she does find herself pausing; long enough for him to move her hair, the ends of it floating in the water as they became soaking wet, and get her back wet.

It's the little kiss that brings her back, and she finds herself wanting to remember every moment of this bath, the way Peter so easily tells her something she doesn't think he's ever told anyone. Something softer than happiness settles in her, easing a darkness in her, just enough.

"True," she's proud that she doesn't sound like she's just survived a mental earthquake.


	17. Chapter 17

Frowning at the wet ends of her hair, she brings her hands out of the water and beings pulling it all back in a quick braid, at least then most of it would be out of the way, if still wet.

It passes over his head, whatever reaction she has inside, because he doesn't notice it at all. What he does do is laugh when she starts to braid her hair. "No, stop that." He scoops her hair back towards him with a free hand, pulling out the braid with careful fingers. "I'm going to wash your hair. You might want to cut the water off, though."

"Oh," it comes out quiet and small.

Leaning away from him she turns off the water, filling the bathroom with near silence, she takes up her previous position again.

Putting down the items in his hand and saving the washing for later, he tilts her head back just a little and uses both hands to scoop up a large handful of water. The water coats her hair slowly as he pours it, and it only takes a few times before her hair is wet enough for him to lather it well. Reaching for the complimentary shampoo, he puts some in his palm and rubs them together and begins to work the shampoo carefully through her hair. "You're awfully quiet," he says.

She leans her head back into his hands with a sigh.

Biting back the urge to apologize, she has no reason to be sorry for not talking, she gives a little shrug. "I guess I don't know what to say." Which is true enough.

He doesn't say anything, his mood slipping into a more somber one. Relaxed with the steady motions of his hands in her hair, realizing he must have a thing for her hair considering his fixation on it, he finishes up to the ends and reaches for the cloth and soap to prepare those next. It lathers up nicely, and he runs it over her shoulders, arms, and back wherever he can reach with them still sitting, taking his time with it.

Even though he's not giving her a massage, she can still feel her shoulders slumping and muscles relaxing as he works. "You're going to turn me into goo," it's a teasing complaint though. "Then you're going to have to feed me by hand like I'm some decadent Roman." Now there's an interesting image.

His smirk is more of a smile, but mischievous all the same. "I wouldn't say no to something that brought my hands to your lips and my fingers in your mouth." He even thinks about it. It's hard not to in their position, but the imagery of her taking a small bite of food from his fingers and closing her lips around them before pulling off slowly only excites him again. He takes in a deep breath. "Okay, change of subject. Time to rinse."

It startles a full laugh from her, her shoulders are still shaking as she tilts her chin up, giving him better access to top of her head. "Maybe for Halloween," it's more of a musing thought than actual question. She's used to big parties on Halloween, dressing up and having fun with her friends; but she has no idea if she even wants to do anything remotely like that this year. Maybe instead she and Peter can cuddle and watch horror movies, trading off who gets to answer the door when the bell rings; if they got trick or treaters at all.

"Around Halloween, I recall scaring the local kids with real fangs and claws," Peter muses as he rinses her hair. "But Talia put a stop to that." He had never been much of a Halloween person. People never came all the way into the woods to their house to do trick or treating, and their family had never much been one for celebrating around that time of year. Not that they were against the holiday, but to keep any children or teens in the family from doing something idiotic that could risk exposure or harm.

Her laughing turns to sniggers. "You would," she responds fondly. "Though these days people might just tell you you're doing it wrong." After all there were a lot of werewolf movies out there, and not a one looked like the real deal; mostly.

"They might," he agrees, rinsing her arms before taking the wash cloth and soaping it up again to use on himself. "Though most of them just run screaming before they complain, so who knows."

She turns, sending little waves of water through the tub. "Let me," she reaches for the washcloth.

Peter pauses before handing her the soapy cloth. It seems like the oddest thing to pause over, but he thinks, in a way, it's because he's not used to people doing things for him. "Okay," he says, his voice a little softer than before.

The corner of her mouth quirks up slightly but she doesn't say anything as she turns a bit more fully so she can better reach him. Cloth in hand she puts it on his chest and begins rubbing in soft circles.

"When we're done with breakfast do we want to dive right into house hunting? Or keep relaxing?" It seems like a good thing to figure out now, since it's the difference between getting out of the tub and getting dress verses getting out of the tub and pulling on her sleep shirt again.

He closes his eyes. "It's nowhere near late enough to go house hunting yet," he answers in a relaxed tone. "Most probably won't be available until eight, nine, or ten." It couldn't be any later than six something right now. "Breakfast. Relax. When they open, we'll go."

She hums in agreement as she moves from his chest to his arms; taking the time to even do his hands and fingers. "I can live with that." She creates even bigger waves in the tub when she turns even more. "Lean forward a little please," once she's gotten his back scrubbed she can do his hair. "At the very least we can find some early morning news show to entertain ourselves with. Maybe cartoons."

She's genuinely lost track of what day of the week it is, and yeah she could check her phone and figure it out; but she's trying to stay away from her phone until they start talking beyond the house, and onto things like phone plans and bills. But it's also plain old avoidance.

Following her request, he leans forward. After a moment, he thinks about it and turns around carefully in the tub until his back is facing her and he sits cross legged. "You can take out that list," he suggests, "and let me have a look at it."

As they both try and move to accommodate him moving Lydia thinks: yes, bigger tub is a must. "Alright," she answers though as she begins scrubbing down his back.

As she washes his back, he shrubs the shampoo quickly through his hair, which is in desperate need of a hair cut. "I need to cut my hair," he says absently out loud, thankful he had a clipper that he packed. He sighs, chest heaving, wishing he already had a home instead of a motel room. He misses his apartment, but he has also always missed the house on the preserve. "We should leave to eat. Maybe by the time we're done, we can look up agents or whatever."

Lydia gives a thoughtful frown, half from the fact that he'd just washed his hair when she'd been planning to. But still: "yes," she agrees. His hair was getting a bit long.

As for his suggestion she shrugs even though he can't see it. "It'll be nice when we can cook our own food." To be fair she's not much of a cook—her baking skills were excellent however—but she still could appreciate the difference.

"Alright," she puts aside the washcloth now that she's done with it. "Let's get you rinsed."

He nods his head in agreement. "I'll rinse under the shower," he mentions, moving to stand up. "If you'll just open the drain."

It's an easy enough thing to yank out the pug, a whirlpool quickly forming as the water began draining out.

Biting back a smile she stands with him, making sure to pinch his ass as she does so; fair's fair after all.

He jumps in surprise at the pinch, turning around to arch his eyebrows at Lydia. Moving past her, he adjusts the water before turning on the spray and rinsing underneath it. "You'll never hear me complain about that," he adds, smirking.

Lydia doesn't take it too badly, after all she could technically say she got one over on Peter, which is definitely a win.

Stepping out of the tub she grabs a towel from the rack, using it to dry herself off and then wrap her hair up in it—she'd blow dry in a bit. Moving back into the room she crouched down and started rummaging through her clothes. "Do we want to look somewhere up to eat? Or just drive around until we find somewhere we like?"

"I don't care," Peter answers from the bathroom, drying off with a larger towel. "I'll eat anything. If you have a craving, you can pick." Stepping out without the towel, he goes to his bag and grabs some fresh clothes, realizing how much is dirty. "We never did stop by a laundromat."

She gives a huff of laughter. "You say that, but wait until I pick the place that will basically serve me sugar on a plate." Something tooth-rottingly sweet does sound good.

Pulling on her underwear she stands and starts getting all the water she can out of her hair with the towel. "Maybe after breakfast?" She suggests. They should have the time even if they take their time eating.

He smiles, shaking his head at her response. "After breakfast," he agrees, pulling on boxers and pants and a shirt last. Plopping onto the bed, he puts his arms behind his head and lays back on the pillows, smirking at her again. "Ready when you are."

A unimpressed roll of her eyes is all she gives him in response as she goes back into the bathroom and turns on the blow dryer. She doesn't dry her hair completely, that would most definitely take too long, just enough that the parts she wears down won't get her clothes wet or stick to her skin.

The actual braiding and pinning up of most her hair, and her makeup, takes far less time and soon she's swanning out of the bathroom again, slipping into the floral print dress she'd already picked out, and tugging on one of her favorite pair of booties. "Alright," she finally declares. "I'm ready."

For a brief moment she debates grabbing a jacket, but she reasons that it's still the early end of fall and should be fine.

Peter slips off the bed and snags his jacket, assuming it might be chilly since they are farther north than before, and if it isn't, Lydia can always take it if she starts to feel cold. He leads the way out to the car, making sure he has his phone on him. He hasn't checked it since he left Beacon Hills. Hasn't needed to. Hasn't wanted to. "Are we driving until we see something that catches our eyes?"

Her cheeks pinken. "Yes," she'd completely forgotten to look up a place. Definitely embarrassing.

"Do you want to drive?" It's asked with a small smile as they reach the vehicle. He notices her pause, but doesn't say anything about it.

She snatches the keys from his hand. "Alright." She climbs into the driver’s seat and readjusts it again, it's funnier to watch Peter do it.

Hopefully there would be somewhere nearby that served good food, she wanted this to be special, this was the start of her new life after all.

"Do you think they have a local joint that sells authentic Boston dishes?" Peter glances out the window at the lights as they pass. It's still pitch black in the sky. "Not that I know if Boston has many specialty dishes, but I'm sure they have a few."

"I'm sure any non-chain restaurant we find will have a signature dish of some sort." Whether or not it was a Boston specialty could be debated.

Still as she meandered through the streets she kept her eye out for something local, instead of a chain diner. But it does feel like forever until she finds someplace open that looks good. "How about there?" She points at a brightly colored sign proclaiming the place to be The Friendly Toast.

"Sounds breakfasty," Peter answers, gazing at the sign. "I'm in."

Lips twitching in a smile she finds parking far sooner than she thought she would and turns off the car. Opening her door this time, but not getting out.

His buckle is already off, and he pops the door as soon as the vehicle stops. Stepping out and shutting it, he walks to the front of the car near the sidewalk to wait for Lydia, but notices she hasn't stepped out yet.

Holding back an amused look, he goes to her door and arches an eyebrow. "You know the rules are different if you drive." Peter holds out his hand to help her down from the steep incline. She is fairly short for his vehicle, after all. "You're supposed to come to my door," he adds cheekily.

Taking his hand she uses him as counter weight to pull herself out. "I'm not sure I'm fast enough," she responds with good natured tart. But it is a sort of truth.

Inside the restaurant is warm and full of bustle and conversation; and Lydia can't honestly remember the last time she was in one so full. "Just the two of you?"

The greeter's question breaks her out of her thoughts and Lydia smiles. "Yes."

"Alright, I think there's a table open, but let me check." With another smile the greeter hurries off.

"Well," Lydia says to Peter as she rests her head against his arm. "At the very least everything _smells_ good."

The inside, though full, is oddly comfortable. Peter doesn't see anyone staring at them or being nosey.  The greeter comes back. "We have a table this way if you'll just follow me." It's said with a smile.

He follows the greeter to their table, sitting down on one side. "What would you like to drink?"

"Water," he answers, keeping it simple. He looks up at Lydia.

"Water for me too, and..." she glances quickly at their beverages. "Some earl grey tea also."

"Alright, well Carl will be your server and should be by soon with your drinks." With that the greeter left them.

As Lydia began perusing the menu in earnest she found herself smiling, "well at least we aren't pressed for choices." She felt certain that, even if they came here every morning, they wouldn't run out of new breakfasts to try anytime soon.

Peter picks up a menu, flipping it open and peering at the list. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I can see," he agrees. His eyes rove further down the list. "Where do I even begin is the greater question." Lydia might make up her mind before him.

Lydia smiles, "well Peter. I'd hope you have a good idea of what you like and don't like," she teases. Her own eyes leave the menu to glance around the restaurant. "And don't forget the specials either." She points out a chalk wall half covered in writing, and describing various specials.

He stares pointedly at the breakfast menu for about a minute or two until he answers her, folding up the menu and putting it aside. "I know what I want," he says with a grin, folding his arms and leaning forward. He glances over her shoulder. The grin falls as another realization settles over him. "And it's probably going to be a minute before they come back with our drinks."

She frowns as she glances over her shoulder, and doesn't see anything of note. Perhaps he heard something she couldn't. "Is something wrong?" It'd felt like flirting until he started frowning and if so then his change of mood makes her worry.

Peter snaps out of it and looks back at her. "Oh," he says. "No, I just noticed the enormous party over there." He points at the three tables mashed together, overflowing with scrunched chairs of adults and children, as a server comes out with only enough plates for a little over half of one table.

 _Ah_ , yes she can see how that would hold everything else up. "Well," she rifles through her purse and pulls out a sheet of the hotel stationery. "That means we'll just have more time to talk about things." She pulls a mechanical pencil out as well, unfolding the paper and laying it so she and Peter could look at it at the same time.

Making sure she has lead to write with she jots down ' _big tub_ ' at the bottom of the list.

Her lips twitch faintly at a thought. "And if we run out of house things I'm sure we could make a good pass at a crossword puzzle." She'd seen a stack of today's newspapers by the door for customers.

His eyes follow her hand as she writes down the words. For some reason, a small smile curves his lips. It takes him a moment, but he realizes it's because he's happy. Straightening his face, he goes to hide it, reaching out and poking at her paper. "They're not going to be able to find us a house because the list is too specific," he teases.

She doesn't bother to hide her eye roll. "I don't need _everything_ from the list," she responds fondly. "But the more there is the better." She taps the ones that have little stars by them, right now only ' _by ocean, by woods, good sized back yard,'_ and ' _easy access to Cambridge.' "_ Those are the non-negotiable ones."

He smiles again, unable to help it, and adds, "Big tub should be non-negotiable, too." Even if it is just for one of them at a time, it would be worth it. He sits back, though, thinking once again on funds and needing to make more money. Sure, he had been sitting on a bunch of it once, but most of it is gone. He likes to think he salvaged a fair amount of it, but buying a house, paying for utilities, and—he thinks this is inevitable—supporting Lydia if she wants to go to school, all of it is bound to add up. Maybe if he can find a pack, packs often pay tribute to an Alpha—but no, that means killing someone, and he's trying to be different. "I need to find something worthwhile to invest in," he finally muses out loud.

After putting a star next to tub she taps the eraser of her pencil against the table. "I don't really know the markets here. So I can't make any suggestions." She'd thought she'd have a whole extra year to study them. But her voice grows more confident as she speaks, because this is _her_ thing. "But you should let me look them over before you make a decision, see if the numbers really work in our favor." A smile twitches at her lips. "At the very least I can do taxes, pretty sure there'll be enough breaks between the two of us that _we'll_ be the one's getting paid."

"Sorry about the wait folks, here's you water and tea." The young man efficiently put the glasses and mug down. "Have you decided on what you'd like today? Or do you need some more time?"

Peter tilts his head in agreement. "Of course," he says, trusting Lydia's judgment. An amused look crosses his face before he glances up at the waiter next to their table. "I'll have the Caribbean Waffle and the Friendly Toast Benny."

"The Harvey Dent please," she hands her menu back and fights back a pang at how much Stiles would love that.

Once their waiter leaves Lydia taps her pencil again. "Any musts you want to add to the list? Or anything in general?" For the most part the list is basically all hers, but she wants it to be _theirs_.

Peter shrugs. "Big backyard, woods, both my idea, and I like the garden tub. I can't think of anything else. I'm not picky. Not about this, anyway."

Quickly she tries to hide a smile behind the rim of her mug. "Alright," though it's strange to her; it's not like she expected Peter to just overrun her list, like Jackson would have tried to, but she certainly didn't expect him to be so...lackadaisical about it. And she also knows the only reason she finds it strange is because it's the erroneous 'norm' and how society thinks things should be done; which doesn't stop  the feeling.

"Anything else then?" She sets her mug down. "Just in general, doesn't have to be about the house."

He gazes around the diner with a thoughtful expression. "I think I'll know more after I've seen the area. I've never lived outside of California, and I've only ever lived in a house, an intensive care facility, and one apartment." He looks back to Lydia. "I don't know why I stayed with the family as long as I did. I guess I thought I could protect them better than Talia. It was a big house, and every room had a person in it. I liked the apartment downtown better, but it was..." More empty, he thinks, an unwanted sadness pounding in his chest.

She reaches across with her free hand and rests it on his forearm. "Like you were the only person that existed?" She remembers after the divorce how her mom kind of lost herself and went out every night; Lydia might have had Prada, but he certainly wasn't the same as another human being. And it's certainly not the same as what Peter's gone through, but that doesn't matter, what matters is that she understands.

He stares at the table until his jaw unlocks, eyes flitting back to her face. "There's something to be said for human contact," he admits, though it's hard. "Why do you think I was always at Derek's?"

She squeezes his arm lightly, her thumb rubbing up and down the smooth skin of his inner arm. "I understand," she answers quietly. "But we're both getting better. Even if it's a centimeter at a time." She knows there's no 'perfect' in people, and to strive for that is more stress than one person can handle, but there is being comfortable in yourself and around the people you surrounded yourself with; and that is something worth striving for.

"We're partners," any other word she can think of ascribes too little or too much significance to their relationship. "And we can work together on whatever we want."

As much as he has been the one pointing out his discomfort or uncertainty when it comes to whatever their relationship is and the speed of it, his face falls a little at her admission of them being just partners. He nods his head, though, and everything feels back to normal. "A new start," he says, taking a drink of his water. The ice cools his throat.

Right away she notices his change in expression and her thumb stops. And even though he nods she feels the need to clarify, to have him understand why she chose that.

Taking a deep breath to center herself and quickly glances to make sure their waiter isn't coming back. "You know what a partner is to me right Peter?" Of course it's a rhetorical question. "My partner's the one I'm going to trust over everyone else, because they've proven they deserve it and that they care about me." Her thumb resumes it's stroking. "They're the one I trust to look out for me when I can. They're the one I try not to hide anything from. The one who I know will always have my back and that I respect and value."

She wished there wasn't a table between them, it would make it so much more feasible for her to lean in and kiss him. As it stands she picks up his and and turning it over kisses his palm. "A partner's a lot more important and valued to me than a boyfriend or a lover, Peter."

He looks back, taking in a breath when she asks her question, and remains silent to let her explain. "It's fine," he says with a genuine tone. "You don't have to explain." He believes her. Doubt doesn't factor into it. It only sounds so formal, friendly, but few words suit them.

She doesn't bother hiding her slump of relief. "Good." She kisses his hand again, she doesn't want him to think she doesn't care about him. She would use 'significant other', but in her mind it implied a lot of future things she didn't think either of them were ready for just yet, like marriage.

"I just didn't want you to have the wrong impression." In a way it feels like she's just declared her love loudly and quite openly to the whole restaurant; instead of just making sure he really did understand her meaning.

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. "Well," he begins, "I would hope it doesn't fall apart anytime soon. I won't tempt fate, but I like this. It's new, being able to trust someone I'm with. But I like that, too." He makes a grandiose shrug to play it off. "Maybe... maybe something a little more... personal than partners. Obviously, it doesn't have to be. Just a thought."

She laces their fingers together and lays their hands back on the table, "well if you have suggestions I'm open to them. But," a somewhat sly smile quirks her lips; and she kicks her leg out slightly so that it drags up one of his calves. "Don't expect me to call you 'my Alpha' outside of _very_ private conversations."

 _That_ she won't budge on. And it's not because she only wants to associate it with sex, it's that she doesn't want to share it with everyone else; it's _their_ thing, no one else has the right to know about it.

Returning her sly look, Peter tilts his head. "Considering I'm not an Alpha, calling me that outside of the privacy of closed doors seems a little overcompensating. Besides," he leans forward, his smile growing, "I like being the only one who hears it." When it comes to what they should be called, though, he has a harder time answering. His grin falters, and his hand seems a little uncertain in hers. "I don't know," he says, looking down at their hands. "I don't want to suggest something you're not comfortable with." He glances back up, meeting her eyes.

He would, granted she's playing into it, so some part of her must like it too. "I think so long as you're not expecting me to call you 'master', I'll be good with it. And if not I'm definitely not going to hold back in telling you." That, at least, she _is_ sure of.

His nose wrinkles somewhat, brow furrowing. "Why would I ask you to call me master? Do I really come off as that kinda guy?" Maybe he does. Granted he finds dominating and degrading talk sexually arousing when done right, but he has his inclinations and they don't include everything. "And I know that," Peter adds, but how does he explain it's her rejection he doesn't seek? "What do you see us as? Aside from the obvious."

She gives a little shrug, "sometimes you do. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. You just get this look in your eye, but usually only before we have sex." She resists the urge to snigger; but it's the truth.

"Aside from the obvious?" She purses her lips, thinking. "Survivors, but that's just strange to call each other that."

Glancing across the restaurant she sees their server approaching with food. "Breakfast is almost here." It'll at least give her some more time to think about it.

"I get a look in my eye," he repeats, staring at Lydia. Following that, he leans back in his chair as he notices their server returning as well. "You're going to have to tell me more about this look."

She heaves the gustiest, most exaggerated sigh she can; knowing full well he'd try to get it out of her one way or another. So she might as well go for the easy way instead of the way that might get them kicked out. But at least she could wait until after they'd gotten their food.

So she smiles at Carl when he sets their food down, and tells him no they don't need anything when he asks, and like that they're alone again.

To give herself time to think on how best to describe it so they both don't get hot and bothered, and about their relationship title she picks up her silverware and starts cutting into her food. But after chewing the first bite of some of the best french toast she's ever had she sets them back down.

"Sometimes, during foreplay," she can't believe they're talking about this in a crowded restaurant, then again everyone's conversations create a sort of white noise so unless someone was paying direct attention to them she didn't think anyone would really overhear. "You do get this look in your eye like you're going to throw me against whatever flat surface is closest and do whatever you want to me, regardless of how I feel about it."

Another sigh, though this one more real. "And it's not a bad thing, I _do_ like it. Sometimes I even want to let you." It's strange actually admitting she wants to explore being more submissive in sex, though it feels like she and Peter have already tested the waters somewhat, not all the time mind you, it's something she's known for a while, but never trusted anyone enough to admit to; she'd been afraid Aiden would take it too far, and with Jackson, well, they just hadn't been like that.

Giving a sort of ineffectual shrug she goes back to eating. Not sure what more to say.

He passes the time cutting into his own food, going for the waffle first. Closing his eyes, he actually needs a moment to savor the taste. Oh, they are definitely coming back here. He glances up at her when she starts to explain, though, and realizes it's not a look he knows nothing about doing; those are actual thoughts he often has, but out of respect, just never acts on.

Biting into the eggs benedict, he takes a few seconds to enjoy that before answering her. "I know what you're talking about," comes his answer, washing it down with water, "because I am thinking that." He puts his drink down. "But I respect you, and I don't know what all of your boundaries are. Unless we talk about it and agree what's okay and what's not okay, it's... not something I'm going to act on." He realizes how that sounds coming from him, and another sly smile crosses his face. "Oddly responsible for me, I know, but we're trying to change as you said yourself."

She finds herself rolling her eyes at his last words. "Peter, I'm fairly certain you're always responsible for something." It's not what he meant at all, but she can't help the slight tease, and it could be taken various ways depending.

But any and all humor gets tossed out the door when she thinks about what else he just said. That he _has_ thought about it. "I...I do want to talk about it." She resists the urge to squirm, her body apparently not understanding that she doesn't need to have _more_ sex today. "I want that to happen."

She quickly shoves another bite of her breakfast into her mouth, trying to keep from saying something stupid along the lines of 'screw conversation', because they _do_ need to have it.

He smiles at her teasing comment as he eats, but his expression shifts back to seriousness when she says she wants to talk about it. He thinks at first she means the conversation until he realizes she means them getting rougher in the bedroom. She does want that to happen.

Mentally telling his body not to get turned on or make this sexual but informative for each other, he casually replies, "We can talk about that, then. Things you're okay with, things you're unsure on, things that are definite 'no's." He tilts his head a little to the side. "Safe words for things you're unsure on but are willing to try. 'Red' is a good one. One syllable. Quick to say. Basically means stop, anyway." He puts his utensils down and leans forward again, lowering his voice and keeping eye contact with Lydia. "You're more important than those interests, though. I want you to feel safe with me. Not afraid or uncomfortable."

Leaning in herself she gives him a brief, but soft, kiss. "I really appreciate that Peter," and she does. After all there's a lot of things she's never tried but always wanted to. "You've already demonstrated that last bit," he could have kept trying to go with his fingers earlier, but had held off when she'd asked him to.

"And I certainly trust you enough that I've told you a fantasy I haven't told anyone else." Her cheeks pinken at the memory; sure it felt like it'd happened ages ago, but really it wasn't. And the fact that they getting into house buying makes it loom a little larger in her mind. She takes a sip of her cooling tea.

Reaching out, he rests his hand beside hers and runs his fingertips along her knuckles. "There are... certain things I would like to do with you a lot, but they may seem like humiliating things to do. I don't view you that way, though. It's... a fantasy. Some would take a lot of trust, handing over that kind of power to someone else. My respect and feelings wouldn't change if you wanted to, or even if you didn't want to." He nibbles on the corner of his lip, his eyes having drifted away again. "I would like to tell you some of them at least." His thumb rubs over the knuckles of her free hand again. "Let you think about them and how they make you feel."

The second time he runs his thumb across her hand she also turns her hand over so after grazing her knuckles it comes to rest on her palm. "I'd like to hear them," she says it quietly and earnestly, touched that he's opening up that way to her. "But not here I think," her smile returns. "We should definitely have that conversation in private." She drags her fingers against his as she pulls her hand away and starts eating again.

As if to make up for her pulling her hand away she hooks one of her ankles around his. She's not trying to start a game of footsie, but she does like having some form of physical contact with him right now.

He smiles at her reply, which quickly becomes an amused grin at her insistence to have that conversation in private. Peter sits back as well to continue eating. "I don't see why not," he teases. "Watching you squirm and unable to respond as I whisper near your ear what I want to do to you around all of these people sounds like a treat in and of itself." His foot toys with hers playfully in response as he scoops more food onto his fork and eats.

She bites her lip, resisting the urge to actually squirm. "Well," she finally manages to say, staring studiously at her breakfast as she cuts into it again. "You've already succeeded on that front then." Although that's partly her own fault, she's never had much trouble getting herself hot and bothered with only talk—Jackson had let it happen, if bemusedly, while Aiden had almost been offended the first time—so this is prime territory for her.

She can see how it would happen too, he's nearly done with his own food, so no one would find it all that strange if he came and sat over on her side, cuddling close and whispering 'romantic' nothings in her ear. Despite the age gap and pleasant picture of a couple in the throes of love.

On the other hand, curiosity is getting the better of her, and while she knows if she says 'no' Peter will just stop and they probably would talk about it later, she kind of wants to know _now_. One day she's certain that will be her downfall.

Chewing slowly she makes herself think about this choice, whether she's just getting caught up, or if she actually wants it to happen. But no, she does want it. In a way it's a sort of test, can she listen to him talk about potentially _very_ explicit sex and not try and touch herself?

"If I say red you stop right?" There is a bit of bemusement that already using that not ten minutes after mentioning it. But it doesn't stop her from pointedly scooting more towards the far end of the booth, giving Peter room to join her if he wants.

He notices her scoot, but he lifts an eyebrow at her question. "Stop talking about it?" he asks, taking his second to last bite. He chews before swallowing. "Yes, but only say 'red' if you don't like it. You want me to stop for any other reason, you have to be specific."

"Aright," she nods as well, glad he didn't turn it into too much of a chastisement; she really should have thought of it herself. "Red because I don't like it." Nervously she eats a few more slices, and downs the last of her tea, the astringent taste helping to calm herself. "Specific for anything else."

She's not quite sure why she's _this_ nervous, they did far worse than _talk_ about sex a few days ago. Maybe it's more that she's trusting Peter to keep a look out for them both, there's a much greater chance of getting caught here than at that coffee shop.

Finishing off the last bite, he washes it down with the water and wipes his hands on a napkin. He gets up from his side and comes around to hers, sidling into the booth beside her. Their legs and hips brush, and he puts his arm around the back of her seat to drape it behind her, making sure they are touching all along their sides.

He plays with her hair. He can't explain it, but there is something about her hair that drives him wild and makes him want to be delicate all at once; he has a fascination with it. On one hand he wants to glide his fingers through it and lay her head against his shoulder, and on the other he wants to grip it tight and pull her head back as he fucks her hard from behind. His index finger winds around a lock as he leans in to nuzzle his nose against it.

Her grip around her mug tightens as he presses up against her side, tension ratcheting up inside her as one of his hands rises up to play with her hair. It isn't hard to notice how much he seems to like touching and playing with it, she wonders what he would do if she asked him to take it down for her tonight, how much care would he take?

"I want to start slow, soft," he murmurs, quiet enough that only she can hear, his hand pulling back and unwinding her hair. "I want you to know how much I worship every inch of you. A kiss behind your ear." He demonstrates. "A touch along your neck." Again. "A hand over each curve." This one he doesn't give her. "I'm going to ask you to get on your hands and knees and arch your pretty little ass up, and I'm going to say please. You'll be in only your bra and panties because I want to be behind you staring at the arch of your back as I peel those pesky things off, kissing flesh as I go. They'll fall to your knees, and you'll try to take them off, but I'll whisper no and kiss your cheek—and not the one up here." His nose nudges her cheek. "And I'll spread your cheeks and eat you out as you kneel there, straining against the underwear around your knees, trying to open them further for me."

At his touches she sighs, body leaning into him a little more; although her hands remain firmly where they are. She does cross her legs however when his talk gets more heated, biting her lip again to keep from making a sound, no matter how much he might like them.

But she can't stop the squirm of her hips, her body demanding relief of some sort from the heat building in her. It doesn't help that his words paint vivid pictures; the slight scratch of her lace panties—of course she would be wearing lace—as she strained against them, the _obscene_ sounds he'd make just to rile her up more, the way he'd probably have her begging by the end of it.

"And then?" It comes out a bare whisper. "Would you give me an orgasm? Or stop as I got close?" They're actual questions, but there is a bit of goad in them; now that they've started what amounted to sexual chicken she wants to see how far they'll go; if she'll ever actually say 'red', or tell him to stop for some other reason.

"I'd stop," he whispers. "No, I couldn't let you enjoy it that soon. I'll pull away as soon as you get close, and the first displeased sound you make—and you will—will earn you the firm smack of my hand against your ass. Hard enough to leave a pink hand mark against your fair skin. One squeak will earn you another. And another. And another. And they won't stop until you either hold back in silence like a good girl or scream for me to fuck you like a bad one. Which one will it be?"

" _Oh,_ " it does come out a bit of a squeak, and she finds herself half tensing, already expecting his hand even though she doubted he'd do that in public. "It would depend," it comes out a rush. "Sometimes I might be good, sometimes I might be bad. But," she looks up at him through her eyelashes. "I'd be bad today. Try and push you to give me what I want."

At the moment she's half afraid her mug's going to shatter in her hands she's holding it so tightly. "I need that orgasm Peter," it comes out a pant. She's pretty certain her panties are starting to get soaked, and her nipples are already scraping against the slight padding of her bra.

He smiles slightly, his fingers gliding across some loose hairs near her forehead. "I'll unhook your bra. Let it fall down. Glide my hand down your back." His free hand slides to her lap, but he doesn't necessarily touch her. He does, though, curve his fingers just slightly between her legs. "What's your favorite word? What do you want me to call this?"

For a moment it feels like her brain doesn't want to work, the heat of his hand seeping in, insistently there. But she pulls herself together as best she can. "Hyalus," she sighs. "It's...it's the Latin word for glass, or a glass-green color, my favorite color." Well colors, since glass-green could be a whole variety of greens.

Peter actually raises his eyebrows. She caught him by surprise with that one. "You want me to call it a hyalus?" he asks, unable to stop the grin on his face. He wonders if he really flustered her that much or if he heard her right. "Or is that just one of your favorite words? Because—” He slides his hand a little under her dress, his longest finger grazing the wetness of her panties. He makes sure to slip his tone back into what it was before, but there is still a little amusement. "—I don't know how well calling that sweet spot between your legs a hyalus works with dirty talk." He pulls his hand away, running it over her thigh. "Do the traditional words bother you?" he murmurs, getting closer again.

She bites back a gasp, hips arching slightly. "You asked, for my favorite word. Not what I call my clit. You should be more, precise." Despite the breathiness of her voice that last bit still comes out a bit of a teasing chide. "Or are you asking about my cunny?" An older word, true, but she likes it more than 'cunt'. There's a small tiny part of her that's appalled that she's saying such words in public, but that little part of her can go screw itself. "Pussy works too."

His grin grows, and he rumbles an agreement in the bottom of his throat. "Well," he teases back, "better I ask before I say. So many people find so many words offensive these days, and I'd hate to the kill the mood by saying the one word you can't tolerate." He nudges his hip into hers. He hums again, his voice falling lower. "But I like the word..." he draws it out, leaning into her ear, " _pussy_. It just rolls off my tongue. Hmm, right where it belongs. Maybe if you're good I'll let you sit on my face, your hands clutching the headboard as you fuck my tongue. Such a treat," he murmurs. "But first, since you were such a bad girl, I've got to put you in your place. I'm going to wrap that cute little braid around my wrist and pull your head back—not too hard, just enough to show you who's in control—and I'm going slide my cock into that dripping pussy, begging for me to fuck it and fill it with every inch. And I won't be soft. _Hard_. Every thrust will send you bouncing off my cock, making it nice and deep, the red raw skin of your ass hitting my thighs. I want you to scream. Will you scream?"

Her lips press together, turning her moan into a hum. She's never been talked into an orgasm before, but really if anyone could do it, she doesn't doubt it would be Peter; he'd probably make it a challenge.

"I'd," now she does squirm, wanting more sensation than she's getting. "I would, if you did it right." Not that she quite knows what 'right' is in this case. Being that vocal during sex is new to her. "But what if I don't?" She's always been a little proud that she's so quiet during sex.

"You don't have to," he murmurs, nudging her ear with the tip of his nose, making sure his breath runs just over the lobe when he speaks again, "but do you know how much it turns me on when you do? The sound of your voice, every little breathy moan. You begging me with a whine." He softens his voice. " _Please, please, please_ —do you know what that does to me? Do you know how hard it makes me? I love it, Lydia. I _crave_ it. I want you to need it so much you can't control yourself. I want it to feel so good for you that feeling it isn't enough. I want you to be _wild_ like an animal, and I want you to come so hard you see stars behind your eyes and your legs wobble unsteadily for a week." His hand runs lightly over her far shoulder. "But I won't stop, no. Not until you get there. Not until you come for me. I'll let go of your hair. Slide my hands down your bare back. Grab your hip and slip the other between your legs and play with your clit as I pound into you as deep as I can go." He breathes in her hair, eyes closing. "Hmm, so wet. Clenching around me. So desperate for my cock. You need it, don't you? You can use it, baby," he murmurs lower. He realizes he just called her baby. It's not a term of endearment he normally uses, but it works here. He hums pleasurably in his throat. "Use it to get what you need. It's not just pleasure. It's a necessity. Fuck my cock like you're gasping for breath and it's the air you need."

" _Peter_ ," her eyes flutter shut, every word pulling her deeper and deeper, her pussy squeezing around a non-existent cock that it desperately wants.

At least until 'baby', her eyes open and she turns to look at him. "Don't call me 'baby'," her voice trembles from the arousal roaring through her, but that doesn't detract from her seriousness. "I'm, I'm not a child, and don't want that." It does feel slightly wrong to break the story like that; but he wants to know what she doesn't like, and she wants to follow through with that as best she can.

Her sudden seriousness surprises him. It pulls him out of the moment. He didn't think that would be one of the words to upset her. He stares at her before nodding his head. "Okay," he answers, a little softer than normal, a nervous heat coursing through him as his heart pumps faster. "I'm sorry."

She gives a slightly wobbly smile. "I forgive you." She darts in and kisses his cheek. "I just, don't like being belittled like that. I...don't know how I might react to _demeaning_ talk, but I know I don't want to be belittled." It rings too much of what she'd gone through in high school, and she _does_ hate it. "Call me precious," she lays a brief kiss on his neck. "Call me lover," another on his jaw. "Call me yours," his cheek again.

"Or," she breaths in his ear. "Call me sweetheart. No one's ever called me that but you." Her parents would call her 'sweetie' sometimes, but never sweetheart. The first time Peter had called her that it had taken her aback, left her scrambling for a response.

Her kisses calm him slightly, but it leaves him feeling like maybe they should go over a list rather than venturing into the unknown on a whim. "I didn't mean it that way," he tells her in a soft voice, swallowing past a newly forming lump in his throat. If he gets this nervous just by talking, what would he do if he accidentally crossed a line during actual sex? He's glad he didn't get to the next part of his story. Clearing his throat, he says, "Maybe we should go over a list in a neutral manner."

"Okay," she _is_ a little disappointed, but she can deal with it.

But it's probably a good thing they've stopped, because their waiter's nearly at their table. "When we get back to our room then. But just so you know," she feels like she needs to tell him. "I _really_ liked everything before that."

He actually smiles again. "Good," he says, looking up when their waiter returns and asking for the bill. Paying for it in cash, he gets up from the booth and offers his arm to Lydia to walk them out to the car. Thankful he controlled himself enough to not have to walk out with a hard on, he leads them back to his vehicle. "You want to go back to our room?" Peter asks. They have a whole day ahead of them, and it's still very early.

She takes his arm, glad that she can huddle close to him as they go out into the October chill.

"Yes," she answers as she climbs into the passenger seat. "But we should probably take Prada for a walk before we start any serious conversations. Or at least any serious sex conversations," she amends.

A sound akin to a snort leaves him as he hops into the driver seat, holding out his hand for the keys she has. "Maybe we can find a newspaper on our walk," he suggests.

She drops his keys into his hand and arches an eyebrow. "Says the werewolf with the super sense of smell?"

Peter glances at her, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"What?" She blinks, not sure if she should frown with him or laugh. "Are we talking about two different things?" They probably are, and for some reason that makes her ridiculously happy.

He blinks at her. "You suggested taking Prada for a walk. I suggested getting a newspaper so we could look through local listings while on said walk. I have no idea what sense of smell has to do with either one of those things," Peter adds, starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot.

Turning her head she smiles out the window. "It has nothing to do with either thing." Why does them having such a wacky misunderstanding make her happy? "Dogs and newspaper have a different meaning when you paper train," it comes out a rush. "So yeah," she finishes, off kilter.

"Oh," Peter says. The whole thing went over his head, though. He glances at Lydia, who is smiling and clearly got a joke that he missed. Focusing back on the road, he drives until they make it back to the motel. He parks right outside of their room, the spot still thankfully available.

This time she doesn't wait for him to get her door and gets out on her own. She does however wait in front of the car for him. Even if it does mean she vows to grab a jacket when they get into the room so she won't be chilly anymore; although at least the chill has the bonus of smothering the last threads of her arousal.

He gets out of the car and walks up to her, placing a hand on her back as they head to the room. He lets her go first, and the hand falls lower when they reach the door, cupping her ass and giving it a small smack just because he can. Though, honestly, it's more of a pat.

She all but jumps out of her skin when he gooses her. "Peter!" She's both vaguely offended and aroused—It's not her fault her mind went straight back to the spanking he's talked about earlier.

He grins at her response. "I didn't want you to forget so soon what we talked about." Knowing she seems to like it and didn't say _red_ when he talked about it, he doesn't have any qualms with doing it.

Her thighs clench, and she feels grateful that her skirt is billowy enough to hide that fact...probably; not that he needs to _look_ at her to know what's happening. "No Peter," she tries to keep her tone dry, but it's only a partial success. "I don't think I'm going to forget anytime soon." Definitely not, and she's pretty sure the next time she has the chance to masturbate it'll be to that.

To try and distract herself she tugs on one of her coats and scoops up Prada's leash. "Come on boy," Prada comes rushing to her, barking once as she attaches the leash. She runs her nails across his ears then stands. "I'm ready," she looks up at Peter, feeling like she's daring him to goose her again; then again if he did they probably might not leave the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Friendly Toast is a real restaurant, neither of us have eaten there, but the menu on their site was too delicious sounding to pass up.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the other one of my favorite sex scenes so far xD.

He opens the door again, giving Lydia and Prada a chance to walk out of it while he holds it open and offering an amused smile towards Lydia while he does it.

Prada all but leads the way as she leaves, fondly rolling her eyes at Peter. "It would be pointless to tell you to not be so smug," though if she's honest with herself it's more confidence than smugness; and she likes it.

"I'm not being smug," he tells her, following behind after shutting the door. He walks up beside her and puts a hand on her waist, leaning in close to her ear. "There is a difference between flirtation and smugness. And I like seeing you smile."

He stays beside her, perfectly content to just be without sexual innuendo. The little things, like this, are just as nice.

"Half the time I think you being smug _is_ flirting," she responds haughtily. But she does smile, linking their arms together as they continue down the street, towards what looks like a park.

"It is a possibility." He follows her footsteps towards the park, breathing in the cool crisp autumn air. Walking with each other arm in arm feels familiar, even though they haven't done it that much. It feels comforting, too. Another different thing, but he likes it. He smiles. "I doubt there will be newspapers in the park."

"True," the air feels almost painfully cold in her lungs. "But it wouldn't surprise me if there was a stall somewhere along the edges." She steps a little closer to him, ostensibly to let someone pass, but Peter's also an excellent space heater, and it's nice to be this close to him in a non-sexual setting—Not that she doesn't like the sex.

After Lydia steps closer to him, he glances at her. "Do you want my jacket?" He'll be fine without it, but he figures it doesn't hurt to ask in case she's cold.

She smiles. "This is good for now." Even if only by a little the day will get warmer, and with her jacket and Peter's ambient body heat she's alright. Using the hand holding Prada's leash she points across the street. "Newspaper stand."

"Aha." Peter leads them toward the paper stand, taking some loose change out of his pocket and paying for one of them. Opening it up, he flips through it until he finds some listings and reads through them quietly. Most are for apartments in city limits and a few are for houses, but with three or more rooms. He passes the paper to Lydia. "Do you see any?"

Taking the paper from him she scans them, most of the abbreviations and initialisms are easy enough to parse out, but some are still gibberish to her. The apartments are out, as are the 3 plus bedroom houses. Which leaves a scant few, especially with their budget. "Not really," she admits. "And it's not like we know the areas these houses are in." She gives a thoughtful frown. "It might be a better idea to look at stuff in the greater metro area? They're farther away, but they're not so expensive, and greater probability of houses near woody areas at the very least." Boston wasn't exactly known for its patches of untouched land.

"An agent can probably tell us more," Peter agrees, "and at the very least I'll have something to read." He flashes a grin at her before looking ahead again.

"Yes," she agrees, with a faint huff of laughter. "Though I'd hope my list will be far more interesting." It's an...interesting feeling to know that soon she'd lay down nearly everything she's ever enjoyed or wanted to try and give it to Peter to do with what he will. It's equal parts anticipation and something akin to fear; either way it tangles her stomach in knots.

"Your list for the house?" he asks, a little confused because he already read it when she showed it to him earlier.

A faint blush stains her cheeks and she ducks her head towards him. "No, the list, of sex stuff." She has no idea why she's embarrassed _now_ , less than half an hour ago she was more than happy to say 'clit' and 'pussy' in a crowded restaurant; but apparently here, when there's no one nearby she's having a hard time even saying 'sex'. And it's vaguely ridiculous. "You said you wanted one."

A light of recognition dawns in his eyes. "Ah," he says, "that. So, you want to write one down? I guess that makes it easier." He looks at her, noticing her blush and duck. It makes him grin again. "I can't believe you're being shy about this. Will the list include yes's and no's or just things you are 'yes' to?" He wonders if there's anything he'll like to add that she doesn't cover herself.

"It feels more...public out here." She knows, objectively, that these people don't give a single care about her or Peter, but it does sort of feel like the eyes of everyone are on her. "But 'yeses', at least to try." There's some stuff on the mental version at least that she's wanted to try, but hasn't.

At the thought of Peter doing some of them with her some of her tangled nerves turns to arousal. "I think your insatiableness is rubbing off on me." _Ha,_ rubbing off. But it's true, she hasn't had this much sex in a long time.

"Hardly anyone is out here." A few joggers with earphones in, dog walkers, and people on early morning walks, but not much. He laughs, though, at what she says. "Oh, you know me. When I get fixated on something, I tend to be overzealous about it. It's part of my charming personality."

Without thinking about it she tugs Prada closer when he tries to go after a nearby dog. "Really? I hadn't noticed." Her tone is dry but her blush deepens slightly, because his fixation is her again, if for an altogether different reason, and well, she's certainly experience how 'overzealous' he could be.

They're nearing the end of the park's main loop and with Prada having done all his doggy business there's no reason to linger—well unless Peter decides to draw things out—so she says. "We could head back now. If you wanted to?"

He looks around the park. He doesn't have much of a reason to stay at the moment, so he shrugs. "We can head back," he agrees, turning them around to walk back the way they came. For some reason, it's quieter and more empty on the way out than it was on the way in. The fresh air is welcoming, though.

The motel comes back into sight after a short walk. Prada seems more than happy to trot about ahead of Lydia, sniffing at the ground occasionally. "What city are we near again?"

"Well if we're in Boston then: Chelsea, Cambridge, Somerville, Brookline, Jamaica Plain, Revere, Newton, Arlington, Mattapan, Salem if you stretch...and I'm just going to stop there, but I could go on if you like?" She smiles cheekily.

He purses his lips and narrows his eyes, though there is nothing negative in the scrutinizing expression as he aims it at her. "Really?" He glances ahead again, tugging on her arm playfully until they're back in the parking lot, and the wind picks up.

She snorts, "yes. Boston's gotten a lot bigger since 1630, it's done a lot of absorbing." Though many of those places were still independent of Boston itself. A particularly strong wind caught up to them and she did huddle closer to Peter, grateful they were nearly at their room; she didn't expect December/January weather in October.

He leads them inside their room, shutting the door against the wind. "Hopefully, lunch will bring some warmer sun with it. We are farther north than we were before." He shucks off his jacket, laying it on the back of a chair, smiling when he notices the room was cleaned while they were gone. He sits down on the foot of the bed.

"That would be nice," she agrees, slipping out if her own shoes and jacket and going over to him, sitting down in his lap.

He puts one arm over her lap, the other one plays with her hair again. It's unreal how this feels for him. To hide giving away the look of happiness that must be in his eyes, stubbornly he ducks his head and hides his face against her chest, breathing in deep. "You smell so good," he tells her, his voice muffled by his position.

Since Peter couldn't see it she doesn't bother hiding her own happy expression—although she's certain she wouldn't try to hide it in the first place. Almost comfortingly she threads one of her hands into his hair, nails scratching softly against his scalp. "Thank you," she replies.

There's still an urge in her to get the list done quickly, but it can wait.

A contented sigh leaves him as she rakes her fingers through his hair. He turns his head to speak, but remains laid against her. "We can leave at nine or ten for agents," he suggests, running a hand up her side. "Your list will probably tell them exactly where to look." He doesn't doubt with her specifics that it will make the picking easier.

For a moment she feels the urge to play the fool and say something along the lines of how that list is only for Peter. But instead she only lets that sentiment curl her smile. "Well it's almost nine already," since a quickly glance at the clock told her it was 8:38. "Do we want to leave then or be lazy?" Granted if they get into sex again laziness will be pretty far off from reality.

He sighs again, the blissfully foolish look probably still on his face when he pulls away to look at her. His hand cups her cheek, brushing the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. "Your choice," he says, having no problem with letting her make decisions over him. He knows a part of him wants to stay in here with her, but if she's ready to look at houses, he'll do that, too.

Raising herself up a few inches she gives him a long and slow kiss. "Let's stay a little longer, I...want to talk about the sex stuff." Saying it like that makes it sound so blase, but she has no idea what else to really call it. And she does feel like they should talk about it now, before getting caught up in house stuff.

Giving him a much briefer kiss she climbs off his lap and goes over to where she'd left the motel notepad and pen, picking them up she returns to Peter, settling herself on his lap again.

Closing his eyes, he returns the kiss. Had he been a teenager, that might have made him grin like a fool to hear her be so blunt about it, but his age puts it all into perspective. He understands they need to talk about it, and he needs to know how far is too far. "Okay," he says. When she returns, he places his arm back around her waist in a comforting gesture. "What's the notepad for?"

"I really was going to write a list," she answers. She resists the urge to gnaw on the pen cap as she, very quickly, writes down what's in her mind. But six items later she finds she can't think of much else; testament to her inexperience. "There," she doesn't doubt Peter was reading as she wrote, but she does present it to him; her earlier tangle of nerves returning.

His eyes do scan over the list as she writes it quickly, an infernal desire searing through him just to see the words written down by her hand—and to know that she wants try them with him. Slowly, his hand moves up and down her side; he feels her nerves going haywire. He takes the notepad as she holds it out to him, and he reads over it again. It feels like his own temperature is rising.

He puts it on the bed beside him, rubbing her side again. "Do you trust me?" he asks, looking up at her face. He is serious. "Do you trust me enough to do these things with me?" His hand is constant at her side. "Because some of these things take a lot of trust, Lydia. That or a lot of nerve to overlook the lack of trust, and if you have any doubts..."

His hand is distracting but she needs to focus, closing her eyes she takes a deep steadying breath. Opening her eyes she looks up right into his. "Yes Peter, I trust you. You've been a lot more considerate of me than a lot of people, more considerate than most might be in this situation, and you actually want my opinion. We argue but we at least try talk through it, and it's worked out well so far. You keep me safe, even if it's not in your best interests."

She knows all about that last part from personal experience now. Her hands rise up to loop around his neck. "So yes, I trust you Peter Hale."

He stares back for a long moment, not knowing how to respond. No one has ever shown him that level of trust before; not just in terms of trusting him with her desires, but in general. His throat feels dry, his hand stills. He nods slowly. "I'm going to ask you a few things," Peter murmurs, his own vocal chords beginning to feel the twinge of nervousness. "To clarify."

"O...okay." In a way the tremor in his voice is comforting. But on the other hand she's never talked so openly about what she wants before.

"Toys," he says, unable to stop the low rumble in his voice. "Using them on you and watching, or having sex and using the toy at the same time, so you can have two inside of you instead of just one? Or using a toy on me?"

"Definitely the first two," they're at least slightly less shaky ground for her. "The third if you're interested." But it's certainly never something she's done before; thinking about it does send a thrum of arousal through her however, so clearly some part of her likes the idea.

His hand resumes its rubbing, this time on her back. "I might could be persuaded," he responds. Not that he has ever had anyone use a toy on him before, but there is a first time for everything. "So, anal. For you, then?"

"yes," she murmurs. So far she's only ever had her dildo in her ass—none of the guys she's been with have had a remote interest, surprising the hell out of her—but she's enjoyed it.

"Not everyone likes it," he says, wanting to be honest with her. "I don't know if you've tried it before, but some days it can hurt even with preparation and care. Other days, a little bit of lubrication and no prep and it might feel like heaven. But it doesn't feel good every time, and I say that in terms of women."

"I've done it a few times, but only ever alone with my dildo. So I know." She is pleased that he's being so upfront with her though. Darting in she gives him a quick kiss to his cheek.

He nods, brushing his hand along the back of her hair after she kisses his cheek. "That's good," he says softly. "You know more about your body than most. I don't want you going in with a set idea. It might hurt the first time, and we could stop. We could try again another day. But you don't have to finish something with me just because we start it. You can tell me to stop. You can tell me at any moment, which leads me to pain." He looks her directly in the eyes at this because, for him, it's the most serious one. "What kind of pain are we talking about? I've got limits. There are certain things I don't want you associating with me anymore and certain things I can't do because I'm too strong."

Of course possibly the hardest one for her to talk about. "Sometimes, when Aiden and I had sex," she knows it's frowned upon to talk about previous partners, but in this case she kind of has to. "He would bite me, or dig his claws into me and it," she moves one of her hands to his forearm. "It felt really good. But I haven't gone beyond that. I don't think I could do it to myself," self-harm has never interested her. Her thumb brushes against the artery there.

"So that one would need to be baby steps. But I like it rough, and I sometimes like the bruises."

There is a spike of jealousy at the mention of Aiden marking her, but it has less to do with the sex and more to do with the marking. "Marking," Peter offers, his voice a little uneven. "Possessive and territorial Alphas are known best for the proclivity, but anyone can do it. Breaking skin with teeth or claws and leaving a mark, almost like a stamp, shows ownership. Tells others to back off. It... means different things to us than to you." His hand ghosts over her side where the scars of his own teeth and claws remain. "But, as I recall," he murmurs, "I left the first." For different reasons, of course, but his marks on her always revealed the interest he had in her beyond just survival every time he saw her again.

Despite the faint influx of bad memories—she _has_ moved past it for the most part—that his words conjures she leans into the touch. "Oh," despite the now steady pulse of arousal in her she gives a thoughtful frown. "But his would always heal completely," it took time, sure, but to her it'd just been a more extreme hickey. "Yours hasn't yet." Then again she doubts it ever will at this point. Permanent marks that, now that she thinks about it, Aiden hadn't liked at all. Which made sense from what Peter told her.

Peter lifts his chin at that. "He was being careful with you. He might've thought whoever left those marks would come and claim you again one day. Aside from that, true marking is hard to do without turning someone. Other werewolves heal, and biting is not to be done lightly. Recalling the fight I had with him and his twin, he seemed the type." He plays with the tip of her braid. "I will if you want me to, but I would prefer not to break skin." He glides his fingertips across her neck. "Or at least be gentle and not leave another mark that won't heal."

"Alright," she doesn't necessarily like it, but she understands and can see why he feels that way; they were going to have to compromise on _something_. "Any other questions?"

He can tell she doesn't like it. Peter frowns. "Do you really want me to do that?" he asks. "Bite you and break the skin? Cut you open with my claws? Make you bleed?" He is afraid, in more ways than one, of awakening old nightmares in her of him. Scaring her. Losing her. What if he bites her in the middle of sex, and she doesn't have the reaction she thinks she will? What if she huddles in a ball afterwards, crying, and he can't be the one to comfort her? "What if I scare you? What if it makes you cry? What if it just brings up memories that taint what we have now?" He lays it all out on the table, each fear, because she is being honest with him. He can do the same for her. "I don't want to be that monster on the lacrosse field, Lydia," he barely breathes it out, his eyes feeling wet.

 _Oh_ , she didn't think it would affect _him_ that much. She hugs him, burying her face in his neck. "I don't want you to be that either," she agrees. She doesn't want to go back to any of that, to being ignored and afraid and alone. "We can not do that, there are other ways you could give me some pain." He'd had no problems earlier with promising to spank her. "Maybe we can talk more about it in a few months or a year. We we'll have a better idea of us." She doesn't want to say a blanket no, but she can hold off on that, wait and see how they work out other things, how they work out when he's hurting her in other ways. "Would that be alright?"

"I don't want you to look at me that way again," he responds quietly, wrapping his arms around her. "That's all." He runs one of his hands up and down her back. "I think, at the very least, if you're sure you like feeling pain, then we can start off slow. Simple." He's still hesitant about it, but he'll go there to test it if she wants him to do that with her.

"I can live with that, it's new for me too Peter." She squeezes him a little harder then pulls away to give him another brief kiss.

He kisses her back, however briefly, and considers asking his last question, though given how she reacted to him calling her baby, he thinks she'll shoot it down, anyway. "These are all things you proposed, but I have one of my own. At least one for now." He rubs his hands soothing on her again. "There is something I like during rough sex." Peter tries to think of a way to word it, but only one comes to mind. "Name-calling. I want to call you things I... would never call you outside of those limits."

Her frown is thoughtful more than forbidding. "What sort of names?" If they can agree now than she won't find it so off-putting during sex.

He goes to open his mouth, but finds trouble speaking it out of context. "The really bad ones," he says carefully. "In the context of dirty talk, not the words by themselves."

She hadn't thought Peter would get shy, but she can understand his hesitance. "I don't mind bitch," she had no such problems; and he wouldn't be the first to call her that in sex. "Cunt is alright too. And after a point I'm not really paying attention to the words, but the tone and sound of your voice. Baby and babe are the only endearments I can't really stand, especially during sex."

Peter shakes his head. "Not bitch," he tells her. He gets bolder, though, given her frank response and looks her in the eyes when he says it to see if she has a certain reaction to it. "Slut," he finally says, hoping he doesn't regret it. "Whore," he adds with a softer inflection.

She trails her fingers up and down his forearm. "I don't mind slut, but whore maybe more sparingly? I think I could stand it then." She purses her lips for a moment. " _Your_ slut or whore I would like more I think."

He leans closer to her, nudging his face near her neck to nuzzle her as his hand moves up to her cheek, a demonstration of sorts. He murmurs it against her skin like he's whispering sweet nothings instead of filthy language. "You're such a little slut for my cock—” It's followed by his teeth biting the flesh of her neck and tugging it away just enough to pinch before releasing. His free hand comes down hard against her ass, slapping it with enough force to shake her. He whispers against her neck, his face still cradled there. "Like that."

A reedy gasp escapes her, her whole body arching and shuddering at his assault. " _Yes_ ," she moans against his ear as arousal swamps her. "More, more like that. I'll be begging for your cock like a bitch in heat, needing to be filled and bred." At least she knows they both enjoy talk like that—distantly she wonders if heat is a real thing female werewolves go through.

He growls at her positive response, a surge of arousal coursing through him. His teeth go for her neck again; he likes to nip and bite, but not puncture, and he does it again. He grips her ass with both hands, squeezing before pulling up her dress and slapping her again. The smack resonates through the air. "Take off your fucking panties," he orders, "and sit right back down in my lap."

She squeals when he gropes her ass and her body tries to jump, but he's got enough of a hold on her that she physically can't. The next smack is as unexpected as the first, and the pain resonates in her deeper thanks to his previous grasp.

On unsteady legs she stands, purposefully she hikes up her skirt to thread her thumbs through; dragging them down she bends at the waist as she steps out of them. She leaves them right there on the floor and comes back to him, keeping her gaze lowered as she takes up her previous position.

It might seem strange how they went from him worrying about her to smacking her ass and ordering her around not two seconds later, but this is exactly what he wants—a dream combination. Someone he can care about and be protective of and dote on, but also someone who likes to be dominated in the bedroom and likes to give up control to him.

He never thought he'd find it in Lydia Martin, of all people.

He cups her cheek, pulling her in for a sweet kiss to contrast what came before it. "If you're wearing a tampon, take it out now." His other hand grips her ass, nails digging in with a promise of what will happen if she doesn't listen.

The sparks of pain make her moan and arch, instincts caught between wanting to get away and wanting more. It's kind of amazing. Reaching down she parts her legs enough so she can reach the string of her tampon, Peter's heavy gaze somehow making it feel different than usual. She flushes as she pulls it out, "what...what should I do with it?" She asks quietly; she'd rather not just toss it away and hope that it didn't land somewhere where it wouldn't stain too much like last time, but she's not the one in control here.

He moves close to her face, mouth near her cheek. "Put it away without making a mess," he murmurs, removing his hands from her and giving her a chance to move.

She gives a little nod in response, glad he isn't being unreasonable yet—granted she didn't think he'd really ever be too unreasonable when she gave him full control. She climbs off him again and quickly scurries into the bathroom to toss the tampon, just as quickly she returns and takes her place.

He waits with his hands on the bed until she returns, giving him the opportunity to put them back on her sides. "That's very good," he says, nuzzling close to her chest, slipping his hands to her back. "See, when you're good and you listen, I can be nice." His palms run down to her hips. Gently, he kisses her neck. "But sometimes I have to punish you, especially when you've been bad." Not that she's done anything bad, it's just something that gets him off. A part of this game that he wants to play with her, and apparently, she likes it too. "And you've been very," he punctuates it with a kiss on her collarbone, "very," and another, "bad." His hands grip her ass again, squeezing tight.

She plays trying to get away, offering 'resistance'. "Please Alpha, I'm sorry." Her voice is tremulous, from desire rather than fear, but it just adds to the story. "I didn't know." Despite her 'protests' her body's wet and she's all but melting against him in pleasure.

Peter takes her chin between his fingers, carefully turning her with a firm grip to make sure they are eye to eye. "You didn't know what?" he asks, a false underlying threat in his tone. He'll let her be the one to add to that. It'll help him to figure out her comfort levels more easily.

"That I wasn't supposed to flirt," she says it like she's both ashamed and proud, a slight, but deliberate, challenge. "That the Betas would tell you," she wonders what Peter as an Alpha would be like now, and if Betas really would report something like that; probably if the Alpha really was a tyrant she guessed. But she's more than happy to suggest that in the comfort of their bed.

He lets his claws flick out. He doesn't use them, not for anything more than tracing them along her cheek, which she seems to like anyway. "Who?" he demands, pretending to know the answer but wanting to hear her admit it regardless. "Who did you flirt with?"

She feels goosebumps break across her skin at the touch of his claws. "Some guys at the club last night," her skin is starting to flush from all the blood rushing through it, her heart beating rapidly. She averts her gaze, "two of your Betas." The prolonging of this is making it that much better in her mind; but the arousal makes her squirm.

His nose and mouth twitch into a snarl. His heart rate kicks up from the blood pumping through him faster than normal. "I think you did it on purpose," Peter says, countering her admission with a softer tone. His claw traces lower, between her breasts. "I think you wanted to make me angry." He turns his finger just enough, dragging the sharper edge of his claw against her skin. "I think you were dripping wet with the thought of me bending you over my knee and spanking you like the bitch you are for flirting with them," he whispers, trying the word out, still not sure how he feels about it yet. He leans into her neck again, licking a trail up to her ear before whispering in that, too. "I bet you fingered yourself to the thought of how I would fuck you once I found out." He breathes her scent in deep, a cool, calm collection settling over his mind. "Tell me I'm wrong."

She shakes her head, stray hairs flying about. "No," she tries to sound like she means it, but it's a bit hard when she's enjoying this too much. "Please, you know I didn't mean it. You know I don't touch myself down there." Apparently she's an almost complete 'innocent', which certainly has it's advantages; and it's fun. She wiggles her hip provocatively against his hard cock. "Alpha Hale, _please_."

He nods his head slowly. This is how she wants to play it. "Please doesn't work with me," he says, letting himself sound angry, and he scoops Lydia up to turn her over his knee. Pulling up her skirt, he draws his hand back and slaps her bare ass hard. This kind of pain he can give. His hand falls away, a deep red flush left behind. He leans over to the left to look at her face, his hand grasping her braid to tug it up. "Do you know what to say to make me stop? Or is this a lesson you have to learn the hard way?"

Her sudden upending catches her off guard, and she barely has time to grasp the bedsheets tightly before her gives her the first hard smack. The sound is like gunshot in her ears and she finds herself arching into it, a moan slipping out of her mouth.

She goes with his hand as he pulls her up and mimics blinking back tears, though her eyes are dry. And at first his question confuses, because she knows the word that will make him stop-stop, but not play-stop—not that she wants that—but then she decides it doesn't matter. "Please, I won't do it again." But even as she speaks she arches her hips, presenting her ass even more.

His right hand lets go of her braid to tangle it around his left fist instead, holding her up enough to keep them looking directly at each other. The motion arches her back close to its limit while his right hand smacks her ass even harder than the first time—in the same spot. The sound resonates loudly in his ears. "What did I say about that word?" he asks through gritted teeth. "Say it one more time and see what I do."

Lydia's certain that if he holds onto her braid for too long she'll get a crick in her neck, but for now it's bearable; especially with how focused she is on his hand.

Already she knows she's sopping wet, wet enough that the front of her dress is sticking to her, her thighs now slipping against each other instead of rubbing as she tries to alleviate the sensations coursing through her. "I won't ever look at anyone else Alpha, I swear, I won't even speak to anyone but you. Just stop, _please_." It's easy enough to beg, to push him in that way. She can't imagine getting any wetter than this, but she wants to find out if she can.

He lets go of her hair, having no intention of keeping her in that position, and tugs her in a little higher in his lap, holding her firmly in place with his arm over her middle as he lands ten more slaps against her blossoming red ass. He gives them both a breather when he's done, removing his arm from her waist and running his hand up her back. "Get off my lap and get on your knees in front of me," he tells her next.

With each slap a new sound falls from her mouth, whimpers and whines and mewling; her fingers clenching tightly to the sheets as she gets more and more aroused, the pain adding a warm blanket over everything.

When he finishes as she can do is lay there limply for a few seconds, feeling as if one more slap would be enough to bring her to orgasm. But at his command she pulls herself upright, whimpering again as her ass rubs against his pants. Her legs tremble as they try to support her weight and she's actually grateful to kneel, though she can't rest her butt on her heels and so her legs still have to support most of her.

A mix of fear and pleasure swirls in her and makes her feel amazing. Demurely she looks up at him through her eyelashes. "Alpha Hale?" There is a real tremor of fear in her voice, but it's the good kind.

Despite the almost painful hard on in his pants, he ignores it in favor of retaining his cool. He leans his elbows onto his knees, the position putting him almost face to face with her, and takes her chin between his fingers again. "Did you like that?" he asks, as if expecting her to say _no_ to go along with the story.

Once again she plays at trying to get away, squirming and 'struggling' as if she would prefer to get out of answering that question. But she soon 'subsides'. "Yes, Alpha," she averts her gaze and mutters it, like she's ashamed of admitting it—in reality she feels like when they've finished she's going to be a limp lump that sings his praises—at least her cheeks are already flushed, perfectly acceptable for embarrassment or excitement.

"It...it hurt," it's easy enough to put a pitiful whimper in her voice, because it _did_ hurt, but it really was the best kind of hurt. "But I feel funny," for a moment Lydia has to pause to keep from laughing, because she's certain she's channeling every 80s romance heroine and it's kind of hilarious. "I'm all tingly like when you try to breed me." Of course this innocent her wouldn't know what arousal is, this innocent her's probably been groomed since childhood to be Peter's bitch; while in reality she's so wet she could probably start applying words like 'sopping'; she's pretty damn sure she's wet enough that those two fingers they had trouble with this morning would slide right in.

"How can I be tingly?" She has to wonder if that's _too_ much, but she also is really enjoying herself.

He tries not to smile his normal smile; he does, but for all of his forty-something years, he hasn't role-played that much and fighting off the smile fails. Sitting up, he clears his throat and brings back the facade, clearing the amusement off his face and replacing it with a steely expression. Taking his fingers off her chin, he snaps them before pointing at the bed. "Get on the bed," he orders her. He figures, if she's this innocent, he clearly doesn't explain anything to her.

It's sort of comforting to know he's enjoying this as much as her, that it's not just for her benefit.

She stands, grateful she doesn't have far to go to get back on the bed and more than happily using her hands and arms to support some of her weight. "Like this?" She as tremulously. "Or on my b...back?" 'Innocent' her is afraid of that, of the chafing she'll probably experience while Peter fucks her; but Lydia thinks she might actually like that, not that going at it doggy style wouldn't hurt some with her abused ass.

Peter stands up, turning around to watch her, frowning thoughtfully as he considers which position. "Your back," he finally tells her. "I want you to know who's fucking you." He pulls off his shirt and drops it. "You're not going to picture anyone else." Kicking off his boots and socks, he starts to unbutton his pants. "Not one of those pretty boys you flirted with..." Pulling the zipper, he lets them fall. " _Me_. _I'm_ your Alpha." Peter steps out of them and kicks those aside, too. "But first," he says, calming his voice, "crawl over here to me and present me your ass. Tonight, you're not going to get bred. You're going to get fucked, and you're going to learn the difference."

Her pussy clenches and Lydia thinks she might have just had a minor orgasm. Mewling she crawls over, anticipation making her blood sing. When she reaches him she shifts from her hands to her forearms, tilting her ass up further. "I...I always know it’s you Alpha," she sighs. "I was raised to be yours, no one else can have me. No one else is allowed to give me pups." Lydia finds herself hoping she has a chance to revisit this persona, here with Peter it's fun in a way where it most certainly wouldn't be in real life.

Leaning over, he makes sure her skirt is out of the way before he lets his hand gently curve around the outline of her abused cheeks. "Look what you made me do," he murmurs, almost mournfully, before tilting in to kiss the reddened flesh. He stands back up to full height and spreads her legs, slips one hand between them, a groan sounding deep in his throat to find her so unbelievably wet. "Fuck," he swears low. "Why didn't you tell me that was what you liked, hmm?" Half of that is for her character, but half of that is for her, too. "Had I known, I wouldn't have been _wasting_ our time—”

He positions his hand at her cunt like a gun, slipping his index and middle fingers in her so easily that a deep rumble fills his chest, and he makes a quick pumping motion with his hand, his other fingers freely brushing her lips and clit. He leans over, licking her back, biting her ass, and spreading open her cheeks with his other hand. He isn't sure how she's going to react to it, so he's slow with this part. Still pumping his fingers fast and hard, he spits on her asshole, rubbing it gently into her skin with the thumb of the hand holding her cheeks open. He isn't averse to asses. On the contrary, he likes them a lot. Had she not brought up anal herself, he would've tried to see if she was willing. Today is too soon for it, though. Right now, he just wants to warm her up to a little anal play.

She cries out, body tensing as his fingers thrust in. Her head falls down to rest on her forearms breath coming in short pants. "Don't, stop," she whimpers, some of the persona falling away in the face of Peter's touch.

As he bites her ass she whines, more of her juices flooding out; Christ, she didn't know pain would affect her _this_ much.

If she could arch any more than she currently was, she would at feeling his finger rub the skin around her anus. And she's pretty sure her eyes roll back into her head as she has an actual orgasm. "What, what are you doing Alpha?" She manages to slide back a little into the story as she recovers. "That's not a place, for you to go," mock-protest fills her voice; all the while she finds she can't wait until they actually start doing that.

"Since when was that a decision for you to make?" he asks, his voice rougher and uneven, needing to fuck her but holding off. He drops a little bit more spit on her before gently pushing his thumb inside. There is the usual resistance, but he urges it along with a slow push, his saliva giving it a natural lubrication and slip, and it doesn't take much before his thumb finds its way inside her. After the initial resistance, it's easy now. He hums low in satisfaction. "Look at that," he murmurs, leaning in to bite her cheek again. He lays an open-mouthed kiss to it afterwards. "Maybe the only way I can teach you is by filling every hole." Slowly, he begins to move his thumb inside her, his other hand still pumping his fingers in her cunt. He softens his voice. It sounds lighter instead of deeper now. "Do you think you would like that, hmm? Would you like me to train you to be a proper bitch? So unruly. So bad." He pushes his thumb deeper this time. Begins to also move it a little faster back and forth to match the push and pull of his other hand. "Maybe I should breed you back here and teach you a lesson."

It's an easy decision to push back against him, to feel his thumb sink that much deeper. " _Oooohh,_ Alpha Hale!" She all but wails, eyes squeezing shut as more pleasure fills her. "Is that, _ngh_ , is that what you need me to be Alpha?" She pants, half-worried she's going to hyperventilate. "They...they told me that I could only be what you, _ah_ , wanted me to be." Her whole body is trembling. "But I, I don't, don't know how to be a, a...bitch," she whispers the last word like a kid who knows they're not supposed to curse. "I need to, need to please you Alpha." Her words taper off into a needy whine, her body somehow finding more arch to put into her spine.

He loses his composure at that. It's been easy holding back, but not anymore. Removing his fingers from inside her, he uses his newly freed hand to push down his boxers and lose them before pushing her further onto the bed so he can kneel on it behind her, his thumb still in her ass. He said he wanted her on her back, but he loves the way she's reacting; if she lays on her back, he isn't going to be able to keep his thumb inside her. Not in any way that will be comfortable at least.

Stroking his cock once, twice, he pushes into her. No, there's no condom, but he'll pull out. It'll be fine. He groans weakly aloud at the feel of her sopping wet pussy around him, squeezing tight, his eyes rolling back with his head as he grabs her hip with his free hand and starts fucking her with a ruthless rhythm of his hips, thrusting in as deep as he can go. He twists his thumb, slowly beginning to pump it again as he picks up talking once more. "Such a bad little bitch," he tells her, smacking her ass again while he fucks her. "No breeding for you. You get my cock, but you don't get my come. Do you understand? Huh?"

 _Holy fucking hell_ , she can't even respond to his taunts her mind and body gone haywire with pleasure. She orgasms again a few thrusts later, a moaning wail coming from her.

But in the aftermath her persona reasserts itself enough to actually speak again. "Nooo, Alpha Hale," she thrashes about as best she can. "I'm supposed to give you puppies Alpha Hale, how...how can I do that if you don't give me your stuff? You're supposed to make me full again and again until you breed me. That's, that's what they raised me to be. Please Alpha Hale, I need you to breed me." There is a sort of dangerous thrill to saying it, because she knows there's a high possibility that she could get pregnant from this. But right now only that thrill matters, and not the possible consequences.

"Jesus—fucking—Christ—” Each word is punctuated with a thrust, but it's not his persona, it's him. He's not going to come inside her again. He doesn't want her to get pregnant, so it's just foolish to keep doing it, but there's something about her begging him to do it that ignites an insatiable spark and makes him grip her harder and thrust faster. He certainly never thought she'd be into this sort of fantasy. Slavery and impregnation, but it isn't the first time she brought up breeding and getting impregnated by him.

As much as he wants to lose himself and do exactly what she says, his thoughts remind him to know better. It's just a fantasy. He spanks her ass again and again as punishment, smacking the reddened flesh hard to make sure it stings, and tells her, "You should have thought about that, huh? You should have thought about that before flirting with my betas—”

He pulls his thumb out, spits on his hand, and presses two fingers into her instead of his thumb. He runs into the same resistance, but they slide in a little easier than his thumb. Slowly, he begins pumping them, too. "I'm going to give you my come, you dirty little slut," he murmurs, sounding rougher than before. "You can have it if you want it that bad, but you don't get to pick where. Do you understand me? You don't get to pick where." He growls with a particularly sensitive thrust, nerves quivering. "Do you still want it? Do you want it that bad?"

Pleasure builds and builds, jumping rapidly when he starts to spank her again, her walls clenching around him with each one, which gives her even more pleasure; and the cycle keeps repeating until she's amazed she's still holding herself up.

Which basically stops happening when he replaces his thumb with two fingers, then the only thing holding her up is his hand on her hip, and she shrieks when he starts to move those two fingers. Her body's so wrapped up in pleasure that she can't even hold onto the sheets, all she can do is make sounds and let herself be moved with every thrust.

It's the growl that topples her into another orgasm, tiny wrecked sounds streaming from her. But she manages some coherent words too. "Alpha, please, I need it."

Maybe he doesn't last as long as he'd like, but every pull away from her milks him better than the last, and it's more intense than many things that came before it. Perhaps only on par with him knotting her in the woods, and the brief flash of memory back to that during the present causes a shudder to course through him.

Her orgasm and the way she shrieks, falling to the bed face first with her ass in the air just for him is what clenches and tightens his own muscles, and he feels the familiar surge upwards in every nerve. Pulling out and removing his fingers from her, he holds her back while positioning the head of his cock at her ass and pushing in just slightly, enough to get the tip inside, while his hand strokes hard, once, twice, three times—he comes, gasping for breath, his other hand giving out beneath him. He puts it on the mattress instead, leaning over her to use her body as a prop to help hold him up.

Swearing over and over under his breath, he pulls out slowly, leaning away from Lydia. He falls back on his heels, steadying himself with his hands on her ass, spreading her cheeks to look. His muscles give another twitch at the sight, and he leans forward to kiss one cheek before deciding he'd rather be on the bed right now than sitting up.

Moving to the side, he collapses, still breathing heavy. He rolls against her and takes Lydia into his arms, shifting her slightly on top of him, their bodies both at an angle, and wrapping his arms around her back and head. He knows after something like that it's important to be affectionate and caregiving when there's a bond, but he isn't sure what else to do aside from hold her close and kiss her face—her cheek, her forehead, her lips. Which he does, though she feels limp and loose against him.

She thinks she might have actually blacked out a bit from all the pleasure filling her, because the last thing she remembers is him coming in her ass and now she's half on top of him, his arms holding her while he peppers her face with kisses. "Mmmm, I don't think I can move anymore." It's a little bit the truth, her body feels limp and wrung out in the best way possible, she can't even find it in her to wiggle her toes. "You're going to have to carry me everywhere," she proclaims; it's a bit melodramatic, but she finds she doesn't mind indulging after that. "That was amazing. Thank you," now she's being honest, because that really was some of the best sex she's had.

His chest heaves with silent laughter at her proclamation that he'll have to carry her everywhere. His hand can't move much anymore, though, leaving just his fingers brushing against her hair as he leans in to kiss her forehead. "You're amazing," he answers her. His other hand moves to cup her face. "How has no one appreciated you?" Enough to stay, he means. Then again, he's glad they haven't or she'd be with someone else right now. He thinks to tell her how rare that is, to find a woman who's comfortable with so much sexual exploration but only wants one man to share it with, but he keeps that to himself.

"Mmmmm I don't know." She says it quietly, the question getting to her more than anything else they've talked about today. "I don't think most of them wanted to go past the surface." Aiden certainly hadn't, Jackson had gotten deeper than most, but he hadn't gotten further than he was comfortable with.

"In a way," Peter admits in a low voice, "I'm glad they didn't measure up. What a tragedy that would have been." He kisses her on the mouth, nice and slow. Pulling away, he looks her in the eyes. "You need someone who is more your equal." He smiles, though it's more of a smirk. "Someone like me."

She flushes slightly at his words, though it's accompanied by an eyeroll when he smirks. Though even if she's smug she finds she likes the sentiment of it.

Now that the endorphins are starting to fade she can actually feel her ass, hot and sore and aching; she finds herself being filled with an unknown sort of satisfaction at those sensations. "I don't think I'll be able to sit comfortably for a week," at the least she's sure. If she could move she'd be standing in front of the mirror to inspect herself, to see how red she is, if she could pick out handprints; that too fills her with unknown feelings. She thinks it might be some sort of contentment.

He runs his hand down her side, humming in agreement. "You can always lay across my lap, and I'll do my best to make it better." Though she is right, it's probably going to sting for a week regardless. "And even if nothing works, it gives you relief and me a nice view. It's a win-win."

At his suggestion however she shakes her head. "No, I like it. It..it feels, comforting. And, I like the idea of being reminded of this every time I sit down." Though if every time she sits down she gets aroused that could be a problem.

He wraps his arms around her more securely, pressing his face against her. At first, he doesn't know what to say, but he feels so content that very little seems necessary to say. Nipping at her neck, he lowers his hand down her body and curves his fingers between her legs. "Do you have a toy?" he asks, the question randomly popping into his head.

She gives a blissful sigh at the touch. "What kind of toy?" She gets that he means a sex toy, but that in itself is a pretty broad category.

He moves across her neck, trailing open kisses along the warm flesh. "One shaped like a cock," he murmurs, since not all of them are. "A dildo, a vibrator. Doesn't matter which..."

"I've got a dildo like that," she answers, finding the strength to tilt her neck just a little so he has better access.

"I definitely," he responds, laying a kiss on the center of her throat, "want to," another right beside it, "try that," and another, "with you." While there is a more free part of his mind that would be open to her receiving pleasure from him and another man at the same time, he is all too aware of the human consequences that follow once the box is opened. Jealousy, accidental favoritism, emotional pain, and a very real possibility of her developing feelings for someone else. Had she just been another fling, he wouldn't care. But he doesn't want to share her like that. She isn't just another fling. Unknowingly making himself anxious with his thoughts, he stops touching her and seeks out her hand to thread their fingers together. He nuzzles her. "I'm happy you trust me like this," he admits in a whisper. "To share these things with me."

She manages to tighten her fingers a little to squeeze his own. "Yes, and I hope we share more, later on." She doesn't think Peter is intentionally holding back, but she feels like he knows her more than she knows him; and that's just something they need to work on, together. "I am falling in love with you," she reminds him; which is feeling odder and odder to say, but it's the truth, she doesn't really love him yet, but she's getting there.

Even though she doesn't really feel tired she gives a little yawn. Turning her head slightly she kisses his shoulder. "We should probably get up soon, otherwise we'll waste the whole day fucking like rabbits." And while she's most definitely not opposed to the idea she would prefer them to be more settled than this before attempting it.

He never knows what to say when she admits that to him. A blankness always hits him, and he finds himself staring at her and not saying anything. He doesn't know when, or if, he might feel that way. Sometimes he isn't even sure if he can tell the difference. "You're important to me," he finally tells her in a low voice, "and I care. About you being happy." He thinks, at the very least, that's the first building block. Baby steps. He wants to smile at her next comment, but seriousness settles into him first for some reason. Pulling away from her, Peter sits up. "And we still need to get rid of your ghosts," he reminds her as well, looking down at her. "Come evening, it might be easier to find people like us. Once we're done looking at houses, we need to search for them."

Her smile is a bit wan, but real. "Alright," she pushes herself up too, if more gingerly. "And Peter," she raises their still joined hands and kisses the back of his. "You just proved it right there." She knows Peter still needs to do a lot of things for and to himself before he could possibly be considered 'normal'—not that Lydia considers that something to aspire to—but she finds she's willing to help when she can. And positive reinforcement is easy enough, especially when she means it.

She holds her other hand out, "I think you really will have to help me get out of bed though." She's certain she can support her own weight again, but she'd rather not abrade her ass any more than she has to.

"Just proved what?" he inquires, the question confusing him, as he takes her other hand and helps her up onto her knees. There is a twinge of satisfaction that she can barely move, but it's countered by a concern as well when he looks down. "Was I too rough?"

She bites back a smile as she shuffles off the bed, keeping her hold on him for support. "Just proved that you do care about me and consider me important."

Before getting off the bed she gives him a kiss.

He gives her hand a small squeeze, helping her keep her balance as she stands. "Can I let go?"

Her legs shake, but still hold, although she can feel a pleasant strain in her ass. "Yeah," she answers with a smile.

Once she's standing on her own she wobbles over to the bathroom, there's a full mirror on the back of the door and she wants a good look at herself.

Her makeup is a mess of course, but she expected that. Almost tentatively she lifts her skirt and turns around, peering over her shoulder. For a moment all she can do is stare. Her ass is well and truly red, fading out to pink at the edges; it's strangely wonderful and slightly shocking and all she can do is gape and feel somehow owned.

It might not be the bites and scratches she's grown used to, but it marks her just as surely; possibly even more since it's harder to hide an abused ass than some scratches on her back, or a bite on her shoulder.

While she goes inside the bathroom, Peter decides he can get away with using the sink to wash up. After all, his hands are a mess, and he had sex with her without a condom while she is still on her period. Cleaning up doesn't take long, though, and he glances at the bathroom door to narrow his eyes at the silence from within. Not wanting to bug her, he walks back to his clothes to pull the same ones on again. "Do you need help in here?" he calls out as he pushes one foot into a boot, starting to worry about the silence.

His question makes her start, and hurriedly she lets her skirt fall. "No," she replies hastily, going over to the sink and mirror, taking off and reapplying her makeup.

That done she leaves the bathroom, going over to where she left her panties and frowns at them, not sure she wants to find out what will happen to her if she bends over at the waist, let alone crouch. "Ah," she blushes. "Maybe some help now though."

He smirks at her blush, but gets up from the bed once his second boot is on and scoops up her panties. He gets down on a knee, figuring bending is her problem, and holds them open for her near her feet so she can step into them.

"Thanks," using his shoulder to steady herself she steps in.

He slides them up, being very careful about getting them over her bottom, and slowly lowers the band against her skin just above her hips. "Is this okay?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow as he looks up at her and using the opportunity to lower a kiss to her bare thigh underneath the raised skirt.

The thin cotton does make her more aware of the stinging in her bottom, but it's still this side of uncomfortable. "I think as long as we don't have to suddenly run for our lives I'm good." But she thinks soon she might as Peter to take some of her pain—but not all of it because she wants to keep feeling it.

She looks over to the chair where Prada's curled up asleep. "Do you want to leave out some food for him?" She asks as she goes over to her own shoes, grateful she can just slip these ones on.

Peter stands up. "It's a good idea in case he gets hungry while we're gone."

Which isn't exactly what she meant, but she feels like she might as well attempt a fuller range of movement since she isn't having that much trouble walking anymore.

Going over to Prada's food she crouches down and fills his bowl. Her muscles do protest some, and her sore ass doesn't exactly appreciate it, but she manages.

Standing up is actually harder, but she does it and goes over to Peter. "Alright, I'm ready. And maybe, you could take some of my pain?" She feels strange asking it like that, but she's not sure how else to. "But, only I little. I do like feeling the aftermath."

 _Oh_ . He didn't realize she meant _him_ put the food out for Prada, and only feels a little bit bad for misinterpreting her as she fills his bowl. At her request, though, he looks at her as he takes her wrist between his fingers, a loose grip as he absorbs some of the pain but not all of it. "Next time I won't hit you so hard," he says quietly, knowing she likes the pain but he has to be careful with her. He got a little carried away with it, but it was their first time.

She can actually almost feel the pain leeching away, the sharpness turning to a dull throb. "Okay," she agrees. "We could experiment with other ways too." While she doesn't think anything could really top this experience—maybe it was like sex and you never really forgot your first—she's willing to see how she likes being caned, or flogged maybe; although Peter might have to watch himself even more with those.

Turning his grip on her wrist to actual hand holding she gives a brief tug. "Come on," she probably sounds a little impatient, but she is eager to get started on house shopping.

His agreement is a nod since for once he doesn't have anything smart to say, which is nearly lost in their shift from inside the motel room to the outdoor crisp air. He leads Lydia to the passenger side, helps her gingerly into the seat, and closes the door behind her. Hopping into the driver side, Peter shuts the door and looks at her with a small expression of amusement. "Do we know where we're going?"

A part of him wonders if he needs to be more proactive with this house hunting thing. So far, he has left a lot of it up to her.

It's sweet how courteous Peter's being, his actions hammering in his earlier words.

Sitting is...interesting, though not as unbearable as she feared; it probably helps that the seats of Peter's car are pretty plush.

"Yes," she pulls out her phone and gives it a little wiggle. "I've got directions." Bringing them up she directs him to a smaller agency about fifteen minutes from their motel. When they get their she finds her stomach a tangle of nerves, and not the fun kind. "I don't think I've ever been this nervous before."

Peter doesn't feel nervous. At least not until Lydia mentions it, and his eyes focus on something beyond the windshield as a wave of sudden anxiety hits him, too. He is here to look for a house, but he is looking for a house with Lydia Martin. They are looking for a house together.

The reality of it has finally settled in, though only mildly, and he pushes it aside as he gets out of the vehicle and goes around to her side to get Lydia's door and help her out. He certainly isn't going to forget about the reason why he is doing that so consistently any time soon, and he takes her hand as he helps her down. "Are you sure you don't want me taking away all the pain?" he asks under his breath beside her ear, hoping no one notices her wince at any point. As much as he enjoyed it, he's starting to worry about her.

"Maybe a little more," she gives in. "But I did mean it when I said I liked it, that includes all this aftermath too." She thinks she gets why he's nervous about it, there's enough difference in their ages that someone could accuse Peter of abuse, and ignore her protests to the contrary. Granted people like that usually weren't worth the effort to be around.

She loops her arm around his casually, and links their hands together; holding hands like this wouldn't attract any sort of attention really, and he could take what pain he wanted.

"I could tell," he murmurs, accepting the gesture that loops their arms and links their hands. "But we're going to be in public for a while today and the last thing I want right now is to draw attention." He leans closer to her as they walk up to the doors of the agency, his powers sapping more of the pain away as their hands remain linked. "The wrong _kind_ of attention," he adds. If they are trying to get a fresh start here, the wrong first impression could make everything go sideways and cause too much scrutiny or, at the very least, make them unwelcome guests.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is, sadly, going to be the last chapter for a while. I've basically caught up to what Helholden and I have written, and we're gearing up to write more. Hopefully we'll have enough for another batch of chapters in a month or so.

She understands completely, but it doesn't stop her from heaving a little sigh. "I know," she agrees. Reaching out she gets the door for them, holding it as they both step inside.

Putting on her best smile she gives a little nod to the secretary. "Hi, we were hoping to speak with Mrs. Almstead."

The secretary looked up from her computer to look at them. "Do you have an appointment?"

Internally Lydia grimaced, something she should have thought of. "No," she admits.

The secretary frowns, but looks down at her desk. "Well Mrs. Almstead doesn't have a client in at the moment." She reaches over to the intercom and presses the call button. "Mrs. Almstead. There's a couple here that would like to speak with you."

Lydia's nerves kick up a bit more, and she squeezes Peter's hand in comfort as they wait for a response.

"Thank you Jane. You can send them in." Lydia's shoulders slump in relief.

Admittedly, finding an apartment seemed easier than this. Peter tries not to dwell on it, leading Lydia through the door that the secretary smiles and points at. Inside is a quaint room in terms of size, but very businesslike. Photos are littered everywhere in frames.

"You must be the couple," Almstead says, rising to her feet. She holds out her hand over the desk, smiling as well. Peter shakes her hand since it's only the polite thing to do and smiles in his signature way.

"Yes, that's us." He looks at Lydia, raising an eyebrow, before taking his seat.

Lydia shakes Almstead's hand as well. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. We just got into town and I had completely forgotten about making appointments." She takes the other seat.

That's quite alright." Almstead sits as well. "And welcome to Boston. So what are you in the market for?"

As if to reassure herself—if she's perfectly honest this is the most adult thing she's ever done—she pulls out the list, though she doesn't look at it. "We were hoping for a smaller home, probably only two bedroom, the style doesn't really matter. The most important things were proximity to the Atlantic," that nearly stumbles off her tongue, so used to the Pacific being the ocean in question. "And a wooded area."

Almstead doesn't reply right away, instead looking thoughtful. "Well," she finally speaks. "Those important things might be a problem here in Boston."

Peter looks thoughtful at her question. The woman didn't say here in general, just this city in particular. "What about somewhere nearby?" he asks. "A smaller area? Somewhere on the outskirts."

Almstead smiles and nods. "You might have to go a city or two up or down, but they're more likely to have what you want. And you'd still be in the Metro area so if you have to get back into Boston it shouldn't be that hard."

Which is a relief at least, though it is slightly disappointing that they wouldn't be able to find a place right here in Boston.

"If you'd like I can refer you to another agent, though I'll have to know if you're going north or south."

Lydia turns her head to Peter. "You choose," she tells him. She's had more of a hand in the house particulars, she feels like she should let him make this decision, small as it is.

He glances at Lydia and thinks about it. Further south, and he might get lazy again. Harsher weather has always been a motivating point for him. "North," he finally answers.

"Alright," Almstead pulls out a truly impressive looking rolodex, Lydia didn't even think those were a thing anymore. After flipping through it for a few moments she pulls out a card. "Larry Jones works out of Salem, I think he might be able to help you."

Lydia takes the card with a smile. "Thank you Mrs. Almstead."

The woman nods. "Of course." She glances at the clock on her desk. "And not to give you the bum's rush, but I do believe I have a client coming in soon." She doesn't sound hurried though, which at least is nice.

Taking care to stand at a measured sort of pace, Lydia began walking towards the door, turning the card over and over in her hand. Once they were outside she finds herself giving an odd sort of smile-smirk. "From the land of werewolves to the town of witches? I'm fairly certain there's a joke in there somewhere."

Peter gives off a rumble of agreement. "I'm fairly certain the last thing I want to see is a witch," he comments, releasing a soft sigh afterwards. "I've seen enough of those to last a lifetime." He turns to give a critical sideways look at Lydia. "Salem? Are we really going there?"

She shrugs as she climbs into her seat. "I don't see why not. It's not like we're deciding to _live_ in Salem, we're just seeing a real estate agent there." If they don't like what they find there they can always find somewhere else.

"Well, do we just want to drive there," Peter begins as he climbs into his seat, "or do we want to check out of this motel since we aren't getting a place in Boston and take our stuff with us wherever we go?"

Lydia gives a thoughtful frown, thinking hard. "Get our stuff I guess? I mean I know when we do find a place we're going to have to wait a while before we can move in." And fill out reams of paperwork.

"Or we can pay all up front in cash and have them hand it to us on a golden platter and let them do the paperwork." Peter glances at her with a smile. "They get more friendly when you do that."

She finds herself rolling her eyes, but there's a smile of her own creeping across her lips. "I didn't think you had enough money to just buy a place still." There might have been 117 million dollars in the vault but she has no idea how much of that Peter actually got back, or how much of it might have gone to Derek.

"But I'll bet they do," she huffs; it probably helps that it'd be Peter probably talking them into it, he could probably talk anyone into anything given enough time.

Which is both highly unfair and sometimes really attractive.

"Do you really think I put _all_ of my money into that vault?" Peter asks as he starts the car and pulls out, heading towards the motel. "Okay, maybe a good chunk of it, otherwise why bother getting so upset over the whole ordeal, _but_ ," he adds, holding up a single finger. "I didn't lay all of it there. How does the saying go? 'Never put all of your eggs into one basket?' Anyway, let's just say I have enough for us to buy a house and live comfortably for a while. But I'm not sitting on over a hundred million anymore, so finding alternate funds eventually will be a smart plan." He thinks about it for a moment before finishing. "I'm thinking long-term. Not just here and now."

Well now she doesn't feel too bad about having stayed in about a million hotels on their way here. But at his final words she finds herself warming, it might be daunting still, but 'long-term' also has a strange sort of comforting surety to it. They might not have found where they'll be living yet but this is the place where they'll live, for a long time to come she hopes.

"Oh, okay." It's sort of a non-response really, but she doesn't quite not how to otherwise respond to his whole speech as it were.

At her response, he reaches out with his right hand to find hers. Twining their fingers together and palms side to side, he wants to share that with her. Some kind of long-term, if they can manage it. He understands it might not be possible, but so far it's been good. "I want this," Peter says, breaking the silence. He glances at her. "If you want this, too."

She smiles and squeezes his hand. "I know, and I do," she answers. "Still want this," just in case. "You're answer just caught me by surprise a little."

"Long term sounds wonderful though." Staying in one place, doing the same sort of general thing day in and out, 'settling down'. After everything she, and they, have gone through it sounds like a sort of paradise.

"You mean me still having money left?" he inquires with a small smile as they pull into the motel parking lot. "Definitely not what I used to have, but I wouldn't mind building it up again. Hence, investment." Something he is sure she could help him with, especially since Lydia has a mind as sharp as a whip.

She nods. Unbuckling quickly she manages to catch Peter before he climbs out of his own seat and gives him a soft kiss; for no real reason other then that she can. "I can live with that," she tells him quietly as she pulls away.

Feeling better about this whole house buying business, he hops out of vehicle and heads inside the motel room beside Lydia. Prada hurries to them both immediately, yelping and barking for attention. Peter moves to the side, letting her pay attention to her pet while he starts by packing his things, which doesn't take that long, and goes to gathering Lydia's things together, too.

"We can hit a laundromat in the evening," he suggests. There is more time for that and probably less time looking for a home.

Since Peter's intent on doing all the packing she happily scoops up Prada's letting him lick her cheek a few times and scratching under his chin. "I'd like that," it'd be good to have some more clean clothes. "And if we have the time maybe..." You'd think after talking about buying a house talking about phones would be easy. "Maybe we could go to a phone place? I, I want to get my number changed." She wants to break what feels like her last link to Beacon Hills. "And maybe we could start a new plan together?" Now that she thinks about it she wants to get her own money sorted out, but that could wait until after they've settled on a place.

Peter looks down at his pocket, pausing in the middle of packing. "Yeah," he says a little off-handedly, beginning to pick up on what he was doing again. "I need to do that, too." Her mention of phones just reminded him how much he's been avoiding looking at his. He swears it buzzed at least once already, but he has made up his mind not to look. "We can do that as well."

Once all of their things are ready, he gives the room a once over. "Anything forgotten and left lying around?"

She gives the room a once over as well, going even so far as to check under the bed—her ass only twinges at that, Peter clearly having been sneaky and taking more pain than she thought he had. "Nope," she finally replies, picking up Prada again. "I'm ready."

It feels strange, the idea that soon they may be choosing the place where they'll, conceivably, spend the rest of their lives.

"Alright," he says. "Let's go."

Peter leads the way out to the vehicle, putting their bags in the backseat, and takes over the driver's side again. "How far out is Salem?"

It only took her a second to glance at the map on her phone. "Half an hour at most, unless traffic's really bad." It's good at least that it's so close; she couldn't imagine driving an hour or more to get back into Cambridge whenever she started school.

"Good," Peter answers, and she's right. It takes about a half hour before they reach the city limits, but the traffic going back the way they came is heavy compared to the almost empty road on their side. "I'm going to need directions," he says with a small smirk, glancing over at Lydia.

She rolls her eyes. "No Peter, let's drive around aimlessly," dry sarcasm fills her voice. "Turn right here," she continues absently as she focuses on the directions.

"No need to get snappy," he replies in jest, following her directions. "It looks nicer up here," he adds. "More cozy."

Looking up she looks around. "Left. And yes, although I'm sure the downtown is something else." These are the sort of suburbs after all, downtown probably throws 'witch' in your face.

"After the left go right, and the realtor's on the right."

At the end of it all, it's a brick building they park in front of. Two stories high, flanked by other businesses on either side, but thin in width. The sort of thing Peter expected to see in New England; tall and wiry, not the open sprawl of the west coast. "Well, here we are.

Closing her eyes she takes a deep breath. "Let's do it," she wants an end to their journey. Leaning over the center console she turns his head and kisses him, both excited and nervous.

Her kiss takes him by surprise, but he leans into her lips and returns it. Pulling away, he opens his eyes. "I think we should go in," he adds, heading out before she can say anything about his comment.

A tiny huff escapes her at Peter's sudden departure, but she soon joins him. There's a new soreness in her ass from sitting for so long, and this time around it's both good and bad.

Inside the office is certainly more classical in styling than Almstead's was, making Lydia feel as if she's stepped into a museum. "Hi," she smiles at the secretary. "Mrs. Almstead sent us." Which feels odd to say, but it's the truth.

The secretary smiles. "Ah yes, Mr. Jones is expecting you. Head right on in, second door on the left."

Before Lydia can even think to say thank you the young man is answering a phone call. "Shall we?" She gestures for Peter to lead the way.

Peter gets distracted by the displays in the room, inspecting a particularly interesting small statue on a stand when Lydia speaks to him and snaps his attention back. He lowers his arm to hers and holds it out, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow as if telling her to take it.

She laughs and gives a shake of her head as she threads her arm through his,"careful," she teases. "I might start to think you're a dyed in the wool gentleman if you keep this up."

Peter snorts at that, but he leads them through the doors with a cautious air about himself. He recognized that statue, and some of the other decorations put him just a tad on guard.

When they reach the right door she knocks, opening the door a few seconds after a deep voice tells them to enter.

The man himself smiles at the sight of them from his desk, sharp eyes, a sharper smile, and black hair. "I was told I should be expecting a handsome couple to walk through my door today," he says, standing up and offering his hand. Mr. and Mrs....?"

It's not quite the greeting Lydia's expecting, but her parents raised her well enough that she keeps her surprise off her face. Taking her arm out of Peter's she goes up and shakes his hand. "Mr. Hale and Miss Martin, actually," she corrects, feeling like they should at least have some sort of honesty.

The man nods. "Apologies. Mary said that you folks were in the market for a house?"

"Yes," Peter adds before putting on his best smile. "We were told this is the town where we would find what we wanted."

"Well we'll see what I can do," Mr. Jones replies, smiling back a Peter. "What're you looking for?"

"We were hoping, primarily to find a place that was close to the ocean and forest or woods of some sort. Which is why this area was recommended." Lydia starts off, "beyond that we were looking for two bedrooms, a backyard of some sort, hopefully a place with a large tub. The style of the house doesn't really matter, to me at least." She glances at Peter, to see if he has any sort of preference.

Peter can't think of anything to add to that and doesn't want to make it too extensive of a list, so he nods. "Forest, water, big tub, few rooms," he agrees. "We aren't really looking for anything big or gaudy. Is there anything around here that matches that description? "

Mr. Jones looks thoughtful, it's easy enough for Lydia to realize he must have basically all of his properties memorized if he's not going to a computer to check. "We'll there're certainly a few we can check out now if you'd like. There aren't many ocean wooded properties for sale, but we've got some."

Lydia feels something akin to relief at that, "that works for us, we don't have anything planned so our time is open."

"Good, let me get house keys and we can head out."

"We'll go wait in the car," Peter says, taking Lydia's arm with his hand as he leads her out. Once they get out of earshot, he keeps his voice below his breath. "He has genuine artifacts. Seems harmless enough, but I feel like this town might add up to its reported history."

She blinks, slightly taken aback, her eyes looking at the items in the lobby with a new interest. "The first person in town we met is a witch? I think even for us that's stretching it." Yet stranger things have happened, so she's not discounting Peter's words.

"And anyways I'm sure the reality of it goes far beyond what's reported." Which also wouldn't surprise her. Not with the 'secret' history of Beacon Hills that she's come to know and be irritated with.

"Either way, would you be comfortable if we did move here?" She has no idea what sort of structure might be in place for there werewolves here, if any, but so far Peter's been intent on keeping a low profile and she doesn't think he'd like anyone spoiling that for him, even unintentionally.

Peter tilts his head before sliding into the driver seat and shutting his door. "I didn't say witch," he adds. "He doesn't give off a scent beyond human, but..." He really only has one concern, and it shows through a new tension in his muscles. Glancing at Lydia, he gives it to her straight. "As long as there are no hunters here, but I have a feeling prying around with questions about that won't be beneficial to us."

On the plus side, the man showed no recognition toward Peter's name. A well-known name in circles like that. He lets out a slow sigh. "Maybe I'm overreacting."

Reaching out she rests her hand on top of the one he has on the gearshift. "Hey, it's okay. We've got the right to be paranoid." Living in Beacon Hills in general gave one the right.

"We just keep looking out for each other and we should be alright," there might be things not even they could prevent, but for everything else sticking together would be enough.

Her hand is comforting, and already, he sees the agent signaling to them and getting into his own car. Real estate agent. What kind of family of hunters would have a real estate agent, anyway? On one hand it's ludicrous, but on the other, watching the comings and goings would be too easy that way.

"Was he wearing any rings?" Peter asks, pulling out of the parking space and up behind the agent's standard black car. He knows he sounds paranoid, but silver rings were a good trick with handshakes.

It's not hard to think back to her own handshake. "No." She answers, willing to play into the strange line of questioning. She trust Peter's instincts and would rather not quash them again.

Peter frowns. Well, maybe not then. "Okay," he answers, settling on 'no' for now. Giving up his questions, he follows the agent until they reach their first stop.

It's secluded by the looks of it. No immediate neighbors, the trees nearly crowding the house on both sides. There is virtually no front yard, just a small porch, a few feet of grass, and then the sidewalk. It looks older, in need of some minor repairs, but nothing he couldn't handle.

It doesn't, however, scream 'home' to him.

"First stop," he tells Lydia. Mr. Jones exits his car and comes over to theirs as Peter gets out. They might as well look inside first before he rules a final decision.

The place isn't anything special, but she knows all about things being more than they seem. "Well Mr. Jones, what do we have here?" It's a genuine question, but so far she's not impressed.

"Mid century modern, been on the market for about a month now. Shall we go in?" He walks up to the front porch and pulls out a ring of keys.

Lydia looks at Peter then follows Jones. Hoping she'll be more impressed by the inside.

Peter follows as well, and while the inside is clean, it feels dark, small, and the arrangement of the hallways and rooms feels cluttered. He shakes his head, glancing down at Lydia. "I don't like it here," he admits.

She gives an apologetic smile to Mr. Jones. "Yes, it does feel sort of claustrophobic, not for us I think."

"Alright, well if you're looking for something more airy then we can move on to the next one," she's grateful he doesn't try to change their minds like some would.

As they head out to the cars she adds. "I don't know about airy, but neither of us is very fond of cramped spaces," it seems like a fair assumption to make for the both of them.

Mr. Jones smiles. "That certainly strikes one or two other places off the list then." Well that's good? Granted it is, because it means less places to see, but it's strange somehow too. Not that Lydia's going to mention it, they might have all afternoon but she'd rather not spend it all looking at houses.

They follow him to the next house that, while not cramped, doesn't quite have much space inside either, so they both agree to move on from that one as well. The third house, however, catches his eye as they pull up to it. It looks newer, or at least the paint job is new, with fresh windows, two stories, and an open yard.

"Maybe this one will be promising," Peter comments before they get out of the vehicle.

It does have a very homey look to it Lydia has to agree, though she's not too keen on the large yard. "It's nice," she agrees; on the plus side it's the first place they've been to where she can actually hear the ocean.

"It was built at the turn of the 19th century," Mr. Jones explains as he opens the front door. "But the previous owners did some very extensive remodeling, so the place has really been opened up."

And he's not wrong, this place certainly feels more open than the last two places, but with multiple bedrooms, and far more rooms on the first floor than Lydia would know what to do with it's almost _too_ big. Which she tells Peter as they get into the car to go to the next place. "I mean I'm sure we would grow into it eventually, but it just feel too...expectant." That was a house for someone looking to start a big family, not a couple who just wanted some peace.

"Too much," he agrees, wondering if they'll even find one today. He could only hope it will be that easy, but there is no guarantee. They may even have to travel south of Cambridge instead of north like he chose.

He pulls up to park at the next house. It's smaller than the previous one, the paint just as fresh, and while there are trees around it, there are considerably less since it's closer to water. Peter can see past the edge of a fence near the back, though, that reveals trees to the left. The area itself is woodsy, though, which is nice. The right side of the house is more open.

He doesn't say anything just yet, but follows the same routine of getting out of the car as before when his stomach growls at him. "We're going to have to stop for food soon," Peter leans over to tell Lydia as they meet up at the hood of his vehicle.

She gives a brief nod, although most of her attention is on the house. This one is much smaller than the previous ones, but the French doors at the front of it make it seem more open, a feat considering they haven't even gone in yet, add to that the amount of windows and doors on the second floor and Lydia thinks it's lovely; if fact it kind of reminds her of a Californian beach house. There's barely any front yard to speak of, mostly rocks and a few stubborn sea grasses, though the large covered front porch, with very comfy looking chairs, makes up for it.

"This is probably the most recently built house, from ‘98, but the owners updated it before they decided to sell, it's been on the market for about a year now, so if you stuck to your guns you'd probably be able to bargain them down."

Going up the porch she peers into the French doors into the house beyond, the whole first floor is all one room, seating area with a fireplace she doubts they'll ever use, dining room table to the left, kitchen beyond, and beyond that probably stairs. Everything's been done in pale colors, but Lydia doesn't mind that.

"Shall we go in?" Mr. Jones sounds vaguely amused and Lydia pulls herself away from the French doors, blushing slightly, striding through the front door:

He notices that Lydia finally seems more intent on this one than the ones before it, and Peter walks in behind her, gazing about the interior. It's smaller definitely, but still feels wide despite that. The light from the windows falls on all the pale colors and brightens everything up.

Parting from Lydia, he walks for the stairs to look up them. None of the bedrooms are on the bottom floor, but there is a bathroom in the entry hallway leading from the sitting room to a dining room at the back. He walks away from the staircase to the dining room, which is split off from the kitchen. The wall is almost all glass. The doors, too, which give an amazing view over the water.

After some more staring she joins Peter in looking out the back, a whole wall of glass leading out into a good sized back yard that butts against both trees and the ocean. Feeling a little giddy she grabs his hand and tugs him back to the stairs, "come on, let's see upstairs."

After a flight of stairs they reach a landing which has a large study and a short hallway that looks like it leads to a laundry room.

"This is the second bedroom," Mr. Jones, says as he joins them on the landing. "It's obviously not being used as such, but it wouldn't be too difficult to add a bed into the space." He pointed at the closed door. "It also has it's own bathroom." A bonus Lydia wouldn't have expected.

"The master bedroom?" Peter asks, wanting to see that one. He wonders if the lack of family space is what kept it on the market for so long—that, and the flood insurance. Everything about it feels right, though, and paying for it up front they wouldn't need insurance unless they wanted it.

"Up on the second floor," Jones replies. "Or it might be better to say the second floor is the master."

Lydia already can't wait, hurrying up the last flight of stairs and coming up on another seating area, this one much smaller and more intimate than the one of the ground floor, there's also another patio, she guesses, this one open air and facing the ocean and the trees.

But she turns from that and heads instead to the door that opens up to the master bedroom.

It's plainly appointed, but that didn't mean it wasn't impressive, with a high ceiling and the French doors that led to the covered balcony she'd seen in the front. Across from the doors was an impressive walk-in closet, and opposite the bed was the master bath. With the toilet tucked away in a sort of privacy corner, leading down to a heavenly looking shower, double vanity, and a farm-esque tub. She found herself turning to Peter and smiling. "I think it's perfect."

It's an impressive bathroom alright. Peter stares at it for a moment before walking in and getting a better overlook. He comes back out, the windows catching his eyes once more. The open feeling it gives him is exactly the type of scenery he prefers, with plenty of adjustable privacy. He walks up to the glass to knock lightly on it, testing the thickness for insulation. It's thick, but it didn't look it. "I agree," he says, his voice sounding far away as he still stares beyond the window. "It's perfect."

"I'm glad to hear that," Jones says with a smile. "Right now the price is 200 thousand, but like I said you could probably get that down, at least to 175 I would think. Shall we go look at one or two more houses? Or should we return to my office and start talking about Paperwork?"

Lydia feels a little torn, on one hand she _loves_ this house, could see herself and Peter living here quite easily; on the other they might find another place just as nice somewhere else.

"Peter?" Hopefully he isn't as indecisive as herself.

He turns around to face them, having already made up his mind. "Here," Peter says. He walks up to Mr. Jones. "Let's talk downstairs for a moment." He glances up at Lydia to give her a look to convey he isn't dismissing her, but it's a business thing to talk prices one-on-one. "Lydia, why don't you get a better look at the house and tell me if you see anything?"

At his glance she's torn between huffing in annoyance and rolling her eyes. He might be the one _with_ the money, but she's certain she'd be the one better at getting down the price, things like that.

But instead she flutters her eyelashes, "of course _honey_." Yeah, not pleased with him. Still she goes down the stairs before them and out the door, letting Prada out of the car and leading him to the backyard to sniff around and get himself familiar with it.

The autumn wind in the trees, partnered with the ocean is a soothing sound, and she makes herself at home on one of the deck chairs, wondering how they store the cushions during the winter, looking out at the crashing waves. _Home_ , no amount of annoyance-anger with Peter can remove that satisfaction.

Peter gives off a tight-lipped smile. While there is no reason for her to flutter her lashes, he knows why she does it. He wants to do some things on his own and of his own accord, and that isn't going to change, so he bares it long enough until he can bring his attention back to their real estate agent.

About fifteen minutes of debate and a phone call, he gets an even lower price thanks to the offer of paying it in full upfront. Of course, there's still paperwork they need to do, but Peter suggests meeting him later after lunch for it, giving Mr. Jones time to gather it all together, print it out, and have it all ready for signing.

He walks out to the porch to find Lydia sitting with Prada, a strange feeling hitting him at the sight. Even though it doesn't pass, he goes over to her and places his palms on her thighs, kneeling down in front of her. "Are you hungry?" he asks, deciding to ignore whatever happened upstairs earlier.

For a moment she doesn't answer, but realizes quickly that being petulant won't get her what she wants, that it makes her seem like the child she doesn't want to be treated as. "Yes," she answers, looking down at him.

She sets her hands on top of his for a moment, feeling Prada move from her ankles to sniff at Peter. "I didn't like they way you cut me out like that Peter, it made me feel like your arm candy, not your equal." She wants them to be as equal as they can be, and him sidelining her like that wasn't how you treated an equal.

Peter cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes slightly. "What does that have to do with it?" he asks. He doesn't recall at any point ever insinuating that all she was is arm candy. "You didn't think I could do it without help?"

Alright, so she may not have thought of it like that. But that didn't make her thoughts on it any less valid. "No, but you could have said it better. If you had asked me instead of just sending me out like that, I might have argued for a little bit, but I'd like to think I would have let you do it without me."

"Arguing in front of him," Peter points out, "would not have gotten us a good deal. As soon as they see their clients pushing each other, they push harder against you to get a better cut because they see you as bendable." He gives Lydia a look. "I know a few things, believe it or not, and I have experience, and you being a woman has nothing to do with it. Had you strolled in there and asked me to walk out and I left quietly, it would've worked the same."

He leans closer to her. "I don't make the rules," he murmurs. "I just know when to follow, bend, or break them."

"I know, I know," she manages a fond smile. "But next time _ask_ me to leave, don't tell." She trusts him, but he also needs to trust her. " _That's_ my problem." She looks down at their hands, and rubs her thumb against the back of his.

"Did Mr. Jones give any sort of lunch suggestion? Or should I look something up?" At least this time it felt like a discussion and not an argument; definitely progress with the both of them.

"I did ask," Peter insists quietly, moving in to peck her on the lips. "There was a question mark in my voice," he adds, kissing her again. He doesn't want this to be an argument, so he's trying his best to reason with and soothe her

"No, he didn't," Peter finally says, pulling away from her. "We'll meet up with him after lunch for the paperwork. We were working out a time before I came over here to you."

"It didn't sound like a question to me," she replies simply, her smile grows at his brief kiss. But she feels good to leave it at that.

"Alright, come on Prada." Still keeping her hands on Peter's she stands. "We can't leave you here yet." Soon though, the thought sends a thrill through her. "Do you want me to drive?" It's a peace offering of sorts.

Peter reaches out to brush a finger over her cheek, offering her a small smile. He kisses her one more time. "You can drive if you want to," he answers, and he reaches into his pocket to hand her the keys.

"Yes," she answers offering up the hand free from his. "The sooner we eat the sooner we can make this place home."

After lunch and a second meeting with Mr. Jones, they finalize the paperwork and discover this particular house comes with all furnishings shown. While there are a few things they'll have to buy, it's mostly down to sheets and curtains.

"Well, that makes things easier," Peter comments, pushing through the front door with his bags. He hauls them up to the master bedroom and drops them on the floor and glances around at the bright surroundings. His heart races a little at the thought of this being his new home. He doesn't quite know how he feels about it yet. Happy, of course, but anxious as well.

Prada scampers up the stairs behind her, though he stops every five in inches to sniff at something new, it makes her smile as she joins Peter in the master. She puts her bags by the closet, she feels she can unpack later—and start laundry, granted they'll need detergent for that—joining Peter in the middle of the room she stands in front of him and looks him in the eye. "Welcome home Peter," oh, it's a thrill to say that.

He wants to smile, but the effort isn't in full. "Not quite yet," he says. A house needs memories to be a home. "We only just got here."

"True," a faint smile crooks at her lips as she steps up to him. "But we have to start somewhere right?" Rising up to her tiptoes she presses her face against his neck. "We could go grocery shopping, or laze about, have sex on _our_ bed, the possibilities are endless." Her smile grows more real as she presses a brief kiss against the pulse in his throat.

His eyes close briefly, welcoming the ideas those suggestions bring, until they open again, and he realizes there is still too much left undone. He cups the back of her hair, his thumb rubbing into her neck. "All of those sound enticing, but," he tilts her up toward him so they can look at each other. "I'm more concerned with the ghosts trying to lure you back to Beacon Hills." What is the point in celebrating if they aren't in the clear?

At the reminder she lets herself sag into him, a sigh escaping her. "I know," but part of her just wants to linger in a 'now' sort of state. "Do we go back to Boston or try and find the answer here?"

"A part of me thinks here is the better choice," he answers, but he notices how the reminder affects Lydia and wraps his other arm around her. "We don't have to leave immediately. We can rest. Do it tonight." His hand runs soothing up and down her back. "Tell me what you want. We'll do that."

"A nap," she declares quietly, stepping out of his embrace and kicking off her shoes as she walks backwards to the bed. It's tall enough that she has to do a little jump to get on it but she doesn't care. "Just for a little while, then we can explore Salem." She _is_ a bit exhausted, although she's sure most of it didn't come from the house buying experience.

A small smile curves his lips as he shucks off his jacket, shoes, and jeans for comfort's sake, and then crawls onto the bed behind Lydia. Sliding his arm over her waist, he snuggles closely and finds it's easy to ignore the fading light past the sheer curtains. He kisses her shoulder, wanting to tell her in some way that he cares about her before they fall asleep, but all sound insufficient in his head, so he settles on silence and squeezes the arm he has around her waist for a moment instead.

Closing her eyes with a faint smile she cuddles closer to him, warm enough that she doesn't feel a need to slip under the blankets. Slowly she slips into sleep, feeling safe and cared for.

But she awakes with an abrupt start stomach roiling and bile climbing up her throat. Not bothering on being considerate she scrambles out of the bed and runs to the bathroom, just managing to make it too the toilet before she can't hold back anymore.

He wakes with a start as well, rolling over onto his back as he rubs a hand over his eyes after Lydia has already jumped off the bed and made a run for it. He hears her in the bathroom not a few seconds later, choosing not to go in after her. A moment for privacy, at the very least. Peter does sit up, though, and waits for the sounds to subside.

"Are you alright?" he finally calls out.

Ugh, she feels disgusting. But she think she's finished being sick, thank God. Slowly she lifts her arm up and flushes the toilet letting herself slump back against the wall. "No," she faintly answers, not sure she can speak louder; good thing she's dating—dating?—a werewolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's](http://www.homebunch.com/california-beach-house/) the house Peter and Lydia move into.


End file.
